a

Of all the things I’ve asked myself in my life, the one I continue to ask myself is this: is my perception of surreality the same as somebody else’s perception of reality? Now, you may ask yourself this: why is Garnet “Blossom” Evergreen asking herself this? I ask myself that every day. That’s what it all comes down to–this world, this life–it’s all just a bunch of unanswered question.

“Why is my tea so sweet?” I ask myself. “Honestly, they should know I have high blood sugar.”

I’m in the Great Hall, enjoying a small portion of the sub-par breakfast typically served in this old castle. I can hardly believe how little respect for the students the staff seems to have, if they’re serving me such tripe!

“That’s someone else’s cup,” said Hermione. Yeah, whatever. Why should I put up with her anyway? I ask myself that every day, to be honest. Not as if she’s got anything useful to say. Anyway, I get a new cup and it’s fine now. You ever thought about that? How sometimes, if things aren’t going your way, grabbing a new cup makes everything alright? How fortunate we are to live in this world. Now if only they wouldn’t put so much fucking sugar in my tea, Binky! I hate that house elf.

Finally I look up from my cup of tea, feeling as though it really could have done with just a dash more sugar, and then I see him striding into the hall, confident, poised, suitably late. The object of my fascinations and my total and unfettered hatred all at once. I look at him, and he looks at me, and for a moment I’m lost in those vibrant, hypnotizing, Avada Kedavra-green orbs. That’s right–Draco Malfoy had just walked into the Great Hall.

“Hey, look, it’s Harry Potter!” comes the voice of a first year.

My eyes remain on Harry as he walks to the Gryffindor table, regretfully sitting close to Hermione, though his quickly look elsewhere. At least he may get her off my back.

Only in the fleeting instances in which our  subconscious lets go of the petty and materialistic dreams and ambitions which threaten in every waking moment to guide us down the left-hand path do we gain an understanding and appreciation of what it means to spend time in this mortal coil and what it is that we should truly follow and attempt to achieve. Certainly, when I have done so, I have envisaged a future of peace and prosperity shared equally between myself and the bespectacled student which now consumes his breakfast two seats to my left.

And, I mean, really, who wouldn’t? Dude’s the Chosen One, he’s pretty cute, said to be fairly subservient and eager to please…everything you could want in a guy. Yes, I, Blossom Evergreen, would settle for nothing less than the best. My father raised me that way. He would always say, ‘Blossom, if you want something in your life, don’t be afraid to get it by force.’ Of course, he did so many times with regards to me, and that’s unfortunate. But it forced me to grow up strong.

Soon, breakfast’s over, and we fifth-years of Gryffindor direct ourselves out of the Great Hall and towards the classroom designated for the teaching of the noble art of Defence Against the Dark Arts. This year is special, as it marks the first time that the subject will be taught by a competent teacher. I seem to be in the minority in thinking this, but I am fully confident that Albus Dumbledore will teach us well.

We enter the class and he is already there waiting for us. He has been appointed by the Headmistress Dolores Umbridge as the fifth teacher in his position in the five years of my attendance at Hogwarts, and he seems likely to be replaced by someone else next year; if his worn appearance is any indication, he may not make it to the O.W.L. examinations without dying of old age. That is why I trust in his tutelage, for no tried and true teacher can reach his years without accumulating a great degree of wisdom.

Quickly we enter the room. Some students head for their seats, but Professor Dumbledore holds up a hand, saying, “Just a moment. I will assign the seats for you.” His voice is gentle, but I can sense an undercurrent of severity in it. Something big is about to happen.

We line ourselves up at the back of the room, and I take the time to glance around. The room has been redecorated since last year. It was a dark, dingy thing of wood and stone bricks last year, when the maniacal Mad-Eye Moody had taught us, but now it shines with life, extravagance and femininity. The floor is covered in a thick Persian carpet of burgundy, amber, and mauve, so littered with little details and decorations that it seems to me that an artistic eye could be lost in it for years. The ceiling is intricately painted with frescoes which resemble the cornerstones of the High Renaissance period, though lacking the biblical imagery normally associated with them. The turquoise curtains are drawn, but they’re thin, so that sunlight still shines through them and colours the room thusly.

Curiously, I spot a small writing embroidered on one of the curtains, and it reads: ‘AAGSIATKISSING.’ I can’t make heads or tails of it.

Professor Dumbledore stands up, and without saying a word all our eyes are drawn on him. He is outfitted in a black leather jacket held tightly closed with chains, studded with plenty of chromed accessories, and looks to be wearing a pair of fashionable torn jeans. On his right hand is a wide, spiked leather wristband that has about it the look of something homemade. Meanwhile on his left arm he is wearing a long, black arm warmer on which a little skull seems to be depicted. My eyes might just be playing tricks on me, though. His grey beard, so long it is hard to believe, is split in two from the chest down, allowing a view of his jacket, and both ends are tucked into his jeans. All in all, he looks pretty metal.

“Check it out,” I hear someone whisper. “The professor’s a punk rocker!”

“Students,” says Professor Dumbledore, bringing us back into a hushed silence. He reaches into a pocket on his jacket and pulls out a pair of sunglasses, which he dons proudly. “Today, you will be doing an entrance test so as I may gauge your individual abilities. I will seat you personally and individually to ensure that no cheating will take place.”

This is a tired routine, I think. Couldn’t he have just looked at the results for last year’s end-of-year exams? Nevertheless I wait in line until my name is called, and he instantly directs me to the desk closest to the embroidered curtain. Hermione is thankfully seated far from me, but so is Harry Potter. I can’t hide a smidge of disappointment at that.

Finally we are all seated, and he extracts from beneath his desk a stack of parchments. With a wave of the hand, the papers rise from the desk and separate themselves, each one floating towards a student. Mine even unwraps itself for me, a luxury which I happen to notice is not given to every student, and so it should be, I say.

“You have thirty minutes,” says Professor Dumbledore. “Now, off you go!”

I grab my quill and begin the test, but just a few questions in, I am feeling confused. All of the questions are laughably easy! They are second year level, at best. I glance around at the other students, but they all seem focused on their parchments. Shows what a failure the Hogwarts teaching program has been in the past years.

Five minutes later, I am almost done with my test, until I reach a question of such insulting simplicity that I feel moved to heretofore unprecedented levels of contentiousness. I keep my mouth wisely shut, however, but the furious feelings are still bubbling away in my mind as I read the question over.

What is the incantation of the Levitation Charm?
Wingardium Leviosa
Flipendo
Expelliarmus
Geminio

I don’t even recognize the last one, but this has to be a joke. Spitefully, I scribble down ‘E. Avada Kedavra, you dumb fuck.’ I am aware of the O grade that I have thrown away by doing this, but I feel justified in my outrage. I quickly pick the correct answers to the remaining questions, then I stand up with such rapidity that a few nearby students look up from their tests to stare at me.

“I’m done, Professor,” I say in what I hope is a neutral tone. More students turn to look at me at this. I don’t feel embarrassed–I know I’m worth looking at.

“Oh, already?” Professor Dumbledore seems pleasantly surprised. “That’s great, Miss Evergreen, but please sit down. I will be collecting the tests when the time is up, and you can use this time to double-check your answers and ensure that they are all correct.

Something about his tone rubs me the wrong way, but then a thought creeps into my head–does he know of the snarky answer I wrote down? Does he intend to chastise me for it? Well, if he does, then so be it! He doesn’t get to belittle my intelligence with such trivial questions without me saying something about it. Angrily, I sit back down, not even bothering to check my parchment for any errors. I know there are none.

I glance around at the other students, who all seem to be engrossed in their test. As stupid as many of them are, I find this perplexing. Surely even they shouldn’t have any difficulty with it. When I grow bored of their studious faces, I begin to look around the room again. I once again inspect the writing on the curtain, though it makes little sense to me, aside from the ‘KISSING’ part. It could just be a coincidence, though, like an acronym with an unintended word.

The word ‘kissing’ sparks in my head less than wholesome thoughts with regards to Harry Potter, but I banish them away in my irritation. Soon I begin to observe the wonderful Persian carpet. It seems I’ve been seated on top of a representation of some cataclysmic event, as the flames of amber envelop the mauve houses against the bloodshot background. Then over the flames I spot a little text, in a garish pear green so unlike the rest of the carpet, and this time it is a text I can understand.

‘When the katechon is unchained, and the Son of Perdition is revealed, there shall be fire and blood, but a child will be born that shall drive away the flames and cease the shedding of blood. Ever-green is the blossom of life that will undo the Day of the Lord.’

I am asking myself many questions, as it seems is the theme of the day, and foremost among them is why I have a sneaking suspicion I was meant to read those words. I look at Professor Dumbledore, and for a moment he looks at me, and through those sunglasses I can see a sparkle of light, as if telling me that a message had been received. I can do naught but wait in silence until the time is up.

As one is reminded of many times in life, eternal is the wait for something anticipated, but just as I’m beginning to wonder if time has run its course and left me to forever wonder upon the meaning of those words on the carpet, Professor Dumbledore once again stands up and gives a wave of his hand–this time the one with the arm warmer. The parchments return to him, and we all stand in a hurry, though I imagine the other students are standing up for rather different reasons than me. Wordlessly everyone shuffles out of the room, but I remain in place.