Prev Index Next. Pansy's book-bag dropped to the floor in front of the doors to the Great Hall, the books spilling everywhere. By the time she'd gathered her books, she was the only one still in the hallway, under the pointed gaze of the Deputy Headmistress. It was the work of an instant to cast a Privacy Charm around herself and the Professor; for this one spell, thanks to hundreds of hours of practice, she could dispense with her wand. She'd heard that the Headmaster could cast most spells wandlessly, something that, if true, raised her respect for him even further. Then, before McGonagall could respond, she canceled the charm and stood, making her way to the Slytherin table.
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I went to pick up my kids from school the other day, my usual 3 o'clock date with the playground. My eldest son's teacher met me as I walked up, all atwitter with excitement. I know what my 9-year-old son's "type" of guy is. This is not something I expected to have knowledge of, not when my son was 9, and perhaps not ever. But that knowledge is in my brain anyway, and now I have to deal with it. And as much as it weirds me out, it is so cute to see him when the right kind of boy walks into his life.
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I am not a prostitute. I do not stand on the streets at night begging men to come have what we all know they need. To some people, I was a good girl gone worse. My father was once a pastor but when he was caught sleeping with a church member, our church was scattered to pieces. I heard she remarried.
I gave up sleeping in the same bed as my grandmother after the first night she moved into my bedroom. That first night, I stretched my body along the corner of the sagging mattress, my calf muscles cramping; the thin quilt tucked tightly beneath me so that her sagging, yellowed skin would not touch mine. Her chest rose and fell, and I timed my inhalations against her tobacco stained exhalations. But before I hated my grandmother, I loved her.