The Pillow Book of Azalais Emrys, Slytherin Love Goddess

Luna Lovegood told me how nice my giraffe-printed luggage set is and how the lurid, neon green safety straps used to bind them complimented my eyes. She seems nice. We spent the ride on the Hogwarts Express talking about how multi-dimensional mathematical models are often mistaken for magical sigils and vice versa. During the carriage ride to the castle, we talked about the inherent beauty of the Thestrals. Just before disembarking, I did a charm to turn my hair bright blue and told Luna she would be safe from the Nargles with me.

Part of being a goddess is knowing all that exists in the universe. Nargles exist. You don't want to know more about them or you would never sleep. I've heard them muttering in the hedgerows.

Another part of being a goddess is being able to understand every language of every being in existence across time and space. My favorite nattering companions at home are trees and cats. They've got such amazing perspectives compared to the humans surrounding them.

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This afternoon was when I went to sit with the Sorting Hat on my head. After hours of arguing in a pocket universe only they control the entry and exit to (fancy trick, that, most people don't even remember it happening, either) they first stated calmly in my mind "I don't care if you're a Slytherin love goddess, you belong in Ravenclaw" while we were finishing off our scones and tea. Then, while closing the door behind them, they yelled out for all to hear: "You belong in Ravenclaw!" Dammit. I didn't come all this way, crossing vast gulfs of space and time (and the Atlantic ocean after accidentally being embodied in Lowell, Massachusetts as part of a muggle, single-parent family thirteen years ago) to come to Hogwarts and be sorted as a Ravenclaw! Just because I made friends with Luna and then proceeded to walk into the dining hall with bright blue hair, a large basket loaded with blueberries brought all the way from home hanging from my arm, and a few, precious books clutched to my chest doesn't mean I'm a... crap.

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First day of classes and I'm being told that distilling Poitín is not an acceptable "extra credit" activity for Potions. Nor is it one in Care of Magical Creatures, even when Hagrid is teaching it.

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If caught distilling Poitín, I must not allow Professor Snape to take it back to the Staff Common Room "to be disposed of in a non-wasteful manner." The faculty here is beleaguered enough without the hangovers or drop-in visits by the Tuatha Dé Danann that drinking it would bring.

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Dolly Parton is NOT, I repeat NOT, going to come to Hogsmeade to do a gig. (Sorry, Aberforth!)

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Showing my recording of the Little Shop of Horrors musical, filmed while it was on Broadway, to Professor Sprout was a big mistake. So was showing her my (snatched from the future, natch) recording of New Jersey's North Bergen High School's stage version of Alien.

Yes. I get to read all the amazing books well before they're published. I get to see all the art ever produced in the past as well as all that will be produced in the future. Time is not linear to me, though I am more limited when embodied in a human form than I thought I would be. It's mostly fun though, to explore the limitations of being contained in a meat sack.

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Creating the "Darwin Mark" in emulation of the Dark Mark and firing it into the sky when someone does something spectacularly unsafe that indicates that the wizarding gene pool would be improved by their absence from it, was sick and wrong. Especially because Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape laughed themselves into wheezing puddles of goo when I explained what it was. Literal puddles of goo. It took the baffled healers at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries hours to figure out how to turn them back.