*There is no good and evil, only Gryffindor and Slytherin, which is a much clearer distinction.
Ah, but you're forgetting that good and evil correspond to Gryffindor and Slytherin, respectively.
*To have been loved so deeply will give us some protection forever. Which is kind of a misdirection again, because every kid in Harry’s class has probably been loved the same way he was as a baby. The special part is that whole strange spell that got cast because of the exact circumstances. Unless he’s suggesting that Quirrell couldn’t touch Ron, Hermione, Neville or any other kid in Harry’s class either.
How dare you suggest that ordinary parent could love as deeply as Saint Lily did!
*Apparently all the students know each other’s marks. That way our heroes can make judgments about others.
At least it makes Lucius knowing Hermione's marks in CoS make more sense.
And, for you, the Slytherin Thursday Night Poetry Slam:
It was the first Thursday of the school year, and the common room was packed. Even quiet Theo Nott was there tonight, sketching in the corner, a smirk tugging on the corner of his lips. Nearby, Daphne Greengrass sat with her legs over Tracey Davis' lap as the two passed a clove cigarette between them. On one of the couches, Vincent Crabbe was steadily painting his nails black, as Greg Goyle and Milicent Bulstrode argued over music for their band, Minions. Perched on a table, Pansy Parkinson was carefully applying purple lipstick in a mirror she had conjured.
Blaise Zabini looked up from where he was patiently trying to explain to a fourth year with heavy eyeliner, that, "No, my mom hasn't killed them all. She's just got really bad luck with relationships..." to snort, "I don't think that's your colour, Parkinson." SHe didn't even glance up, just rolled her eyes in the mirror as she flipped him off. He shrugged and returned to his conversation.
"What's going on?" a first year asked, sidling up to Pansy.
"Oh hey, squirt," she said, as she vanished her mirror, "This is a Slytherin tradition, it's..."
Her words were cut off as a spotlight snapped on suddenly to bathe a raised platform at one end of the room in bluish light. Black robes swirling from a well-placed wind charm, Professor Snape crossed the small stage, conjuring a microphone as he went.
"Welcome," he intoned, in his most dramatic voice, the one normally reserved for his introductory Potions speech, "To the Thursday Night Poetry Slam."
Things quickly got underway, and various students read their pieces. As Draco Malfoy took the stage, face serious, with a beret tilted just so on his fiar head, Pansy whispered to her first year, "He's the best in Slytherin. Except for Professor Snape, maybe. I hear Professor Snape taught him everything he knows."
Draco cleared his throat dramatically, and in the expectant silence before he began to speak, Miles Bletchley hissed in Brandon Vaisey's ear, "If this is another piece about how much he hates Potter, I may be forced to shoot myself. I can't stand love poetry."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2007-02-04 02:03 pm (UTC)Ah, but you're forgetting that good and evil correspond to Gryffindor and Slytherin, respectively.
*To have been loved so deeply will give us some protection forever. Which is kind of a misdirection again, because every kid in Harry’s class has probably been loved the same way he was as a baby. The special part is that whole strange spell that got cast because of the exact circumstances. Unless he’s suggesting that Quirrell couldn’t touch Ron, Hermione, Neville or any other kid in Harry’s class either.
How dare you suggest that ordinary parent could love as deeply as Saint Lily did!
*Apparently all the students know each other’s marks. That way our heroes can make judgments about others.
At least it makes Lucius knowing Hermione's marks in CoS make more sense.
And, for you, the Slytherin Thursday Night Poetry Slam:
It was the first Thursday of the school year, and the common room was packed. Even quiet Theo Nott was there tonight, sketching in the corner, a smirk tugging on the corner of his lips. Nearby, Daphne Greengrass sat with her legs over Tracey Davis' lap as the two passed a clove cigarette between them. On one of the couches, Vincent Crabbe was steadily painting his nails black, as Greg Goyle and Milicent Bulstrode argued over music for their band, Minions. Perched on a table, Pansy Parkinson was carefully applying purple lipstick in a mirror she had conjured.
Blaise Zabini looked up from where he was patiently trying to explain to a fourth year with heavy eyeliner, that, "No, my mom hasn't killed them all. She's just got really bad luck with relationships..." to snort, "I don't think that's your colour, Parkinson." SHe didn't even glance up, just rolled her eyes in the mirror as she flipped him off. He shrugged and returned to his conversation.
"What's going on?" a first year asked, sidling up to Pansy.
"Oh hey, squirt," she said, as she vanished her mirror, "This is a Slytherin tradition, it's..."
Her words were cut off as a spotlight snapped on suddenly to bathe a raised platform at one end of the room in bluish light. Black robes swirling from a well-placed wind charm, Professor Snape crossed the small stage, conjuring a microphone as he went.
"Welcome," he intoned, in his most dramatic voice, the one normally reserved for his introductory Potions speech, "To the Thursday Night Poetry Slam."
Things quickly got underway, and various students read their pieces. As Draco Malfoy took the stage, face serious, with a beret tilted just so on his fiar head, Pansy whispered to her first year, "He's the best in Slytherin. Except for Professor Snape, maybe. I hear Professor Snape taught him everything he knows."
Draco cleared his throat dramatically, and in the expectant silence before he began to speak, Miles Bletchley hissed in Brandon Vaisey's ear, "If this is another piece about how much he hates Potter, I may be forced to shoot myself. I can't stand love poetry."