Essays... ugh... [open]

[Missy Dragonov]

The low hum of conversation mixed with the gentle crackle of the fire in the Slytherin common room as Missy sat slouched at one of the dark wooden tables near the far corner. Her History of Magic essay lay sprawled out in front of her, the parchment still painfully blank except for her name and the title: The Goblin Rebellions: A Turning Point in Magical History. By Missy Dragonov.

She tapped her quill against her chin, leaving a faint smear of ink on her skin, she stared at the parchment with a mix of dread and boredom. The topic couldn’t have been less exciting. Why did it matter what goblins were angry about hundreds of years ago? It wasn’t like they played Quidditch.

Her emerald-green tie hung loose around her neck, and her Firebolt broomstick leaned temptingly against the wall by the dormitory entrance, the family insignia shimmering seductively, as if calling her outside to practice. She sighed, glancing wistfully at it before turning her attention back to the essay. She dipped her quill in ink and wrote a single sentence:

The Goblin Rebellions were important because...

She paused, twirling the quill as she tried to summon any shred of inspiration. Nothing came.

“Ugh,” she groaned, dropping the quill dramatically and letting her head fall to the table. The cool surface was oddly comforting. She peeked up at a first-year who was passing by with an armful of books.

“Hey!” she said, straightening up slightly. “Do you know anything about goblins and rebellions? Or, better yet, how to make a History of Magic essay disappear?”

The first-year just gave her a confused look and hurried away, leaving Missy to slump back in her seat with a huff.

Her gaze drifted toward the magical weather globe, a glass orb about the size of a Quaffle, set on a polished green and silver stand over on the other side of the common room. She liked looking at the globe, since it was enchanted to replicate the weather outside in real time. There was faint golden glow of the setting sun, it just screamed 'perfect flying conditions'. She could practically feel the air whizzing against her hair and face.

Missy sighed dramatically again and muttered under her breath, “I’d rather a Bludger to the face than write this stupid essay.”

Her hand reached out absently, tapping the end of her quill on the table as she debated whether she could convince someone—anyone—to distract her from this torment. Maybe she could sneak out to the pitch for just a quick lap or two...