❝HOW COME YOU NEVER TRIED FOR SEEKER?❞
❝I ENJOYED AIMING BLUDGERS AT YOU TOO MUCH.❞
The Gryffindor Quidditch Team finally has some real competition. And Harry Potter is totally conflicted.
warning: this book has many mature, NSFW scenes that contrib...
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INDIANA ALWAYS DISLIKED Charms. It was her worst class, believe it or not, and better yet, Slytherin never seemed to win any points from it. Professor Flitwick was a sweet guy, she could admit, and he made up for his lack of height in heart. But she didn't blame him for his slight prejudice against Slytherin; the house had been pushed aside by almost all teachers (with the exception of McGonagall and Slughorn), especially since the war ended, so she didn't take it personally. It's not like any of them knew about the Dark Mark on her arm. Close to no one did.
Either way, she was rubbish at it. First year she had been the last to master the Levitating Charm. She had to practically beg Flitwick not to assign her a tutor — sorry, but she was not about to sit in the library with some older student during her free time when she could be on the pitch.
Charms for students in the same year as Indiana or Blaise were separate classes than the actual seventh years; they were all a year older than the others, and they only attended Hogwarts to make up for the year they lost during the war. Either way, classes were small, which meant that there was more space for Flitwick to easily spot her mistakes.
"Miss Jones, a word!" Flitwick called out to her after class. Rolling her eyes and sending a frustrated look to Nancy, she dragged her feet and wheeled around to approach the professor's desk. Flitwick sat on top of a large pile of textbooks to make him out to be taller than he was, but even then, the length of his arms and his torso gave it away. "I've noticed that your grades have been slipping quite a bit for this class. Is everything alright?"
"Uhm," Indiana wasn't really expecting him to ask her this. Her eyes darted down to her left forearm for less than a second. "Yeah, everything's fine."
"I just know that you've gone through quite a bit this past summer with the passing of your mother," Flitwick spoke delicately as though she might burst into tears. "How have you been doing?"
"Fine," Indiana shrugged. She hadn't been expecting this, either.
"I know you protested it back in your sixth year, but..." Flitwick paused, sighing, and took out a small sheet of paper. "I'd like you to work with another student. A tutor."
"Sir, I —" Indiana began quickly.
"And no, it cannot be Mr. Zabini," Flitwick raised a tiny, pudgy finger. Indiana huffed. "I'd like you to work with Miss Granger."
"No," Indiana blurted. Flitwick raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mustache swaying. "I — I don't need a tutor, I just — I can figure it out myself —"
"You said that last year, Miss Jones, and I don't want you having to re-take this class," Flitwick told her firmly. "I assume you don't want to either."
