Ice PV Ming closed

{Disclaimer: Ming at this point is in a bad place, and thinks rather unkind thoughts. This does not reflect the author’s own views, but is reflective of the kind of story they want to tell.}

Ming had never liked winter. From people crowding indoors, to the change in food, to the thrice darned bone-chilling cold that seemed to seep into every crevice and corner. Winter had not one single redeeming quality. Compounding his ire was “schoolwork”. The longer the Slytherin lingered in Hogwarts, the more he realized that the entire magical society was comprised of what amounted to loons. Loud and unthinking and unheeding to obvious dangers, these wizards; never mind that Gryffindor was meant to be the house of the noble and brave. Never mind that it implied other houses were meant to be less so.

Ming no longer struggled with the absolute basics of wizarding culture, he knew how to keep his wand holstered and when to engage in a conversation about blood status. But that did not mean that Ming enjoyed Hogwarts. Compounding the – frankly – absurd and world-breaking classes like transfiguration, were the stupidly dangerous ones like flying. Flying! Non-magicals had all kinds of gadgets and trinkets to ensure safety when flying. And even then, they insisted on precautions like parachutes that might ensure survival at the cost of some broken limbs. And what did the magicals have? Nothing.

Perhaps. Perhaps the first-year would have had the patience to swallow all this with some dignity; but his energy and patience were at an all-time low, given the dual curriculum and all the “voluntary” reading he had been doing.

‘Voluntary’, right! The thought made Ming want to snort. Although it was not mandated by the school syllabus; learning things certain things were absolutely essential: like how to not ignite your wand accidentally and set yourself ablaze, or the basic idea of what kind of society they lived in, or the tacit expectations in polite company.

And the stress of all this was showing, for those who had the sharp eyes to observe. The normally-immaculate shirt he wore had wrinkles and fold marks. His hand had several stray ink-marks from moments of carelessness. Dark circles lingered underneath his eyes, obscured partly by the glasses he chose to wear. Even his posture – something the Slytherin used to take so much pride in that he selected his initial friends based partly on their posture – had regressed to a slight hunch.

So the first-year found himself in the Small Hall, equal parts hiding from his ever-looming deadlines as he was from his housemates. Schneider and Acropolis were handfuls, and Ming feared he might snap and start cursing people were he forced to interact with either of those two.

“Excuse me,” Ming said absently to a larger boy, contemplating his frustrations and his life in general. Manners were important after all, and it would not to come off as rude. Without quite waiting for a response though, Ming edged closer to the fire, seeking blessed relief from the frigid reach of winter.

Nicholas had begun intently studying the entrance to the small hall, his eyes reviewing where the snow made its way into the building and melted upon the warmed cobblestone floor. There wasn’t anything in particular that caught his attention, rather, the very act of not paying attention seemed to have grabbed him in a way that not much else could. Truth be told, he was tired, and that meant he was on edge. He didn’t know if he wanted to return to his dorm and sleep or put off such an occasion for as long as he physically could. The duality tired him more than simple exhaustion could, and that fatigue left him crotchety. He did not notice the younger boy pushing past him, but he did feel the slight bump on his shoulder as he made his own way to the fire.

Dark eyes turned away from the entrance and toward the newcomer, “Wotchit.” His snarl was half slur and half growl, the syllables merging in his throat.

Even after he snapped, he regretted it. The boy had done nothing to garner his frustration, even if Nicholas could not deny that such anger existed. It was better put to worthwhile uses, against his own failures and shortcomings, and against those who deserved it, not merely the unfortunate souls who happened to get in the way.

“Sorry, mate,” He added, rather sullenly, returning his own hands to the flame, “Didn’t mean to snap. Been a bit of a shit of a term, y’know?”

Even as he spoke, he realised he’d spoken too much, complained over nothing and made it someone else’s problem, “Ah, feck, don’t mean to rant.”

Maybe there was still time to escape back to his dorm, even if it meant dealing with those excitable students with whom he bunked.

@Hui Ming