The Art of Hufflepuffication

The Art of Hufflepuffication

Hufflepuffs, unlike the other students at Hogwarts, knew something. They knew that the other houses were both two serious and full of crap. They also determined that all of the others hated those within their year and house as much as they hated those outside of their house. Hufflepuffs only hated those outside of their house. Other Hufflepuffs were family.

While Slytherin and Ravenclaw competed in a Quidditch match, the Hufflepuffs decided to have a "friendly" game of tag. No other house would ever think of putting the word "friendly" in front of a sport, or an in-class discussion. Or a meal time. The other houses were in love with hatred. Hufflepuffs could easily be seen as the Hogwarts hippies.

Kindness, peace, togetherness, man.

"Right, so let's pick teams!" Hannah shouted, running in place with her bright pink earmuffs on. She'd loved them so much in Herbology that Professor Sprout just let her keep the darn things.

"Okay," agreed Sarah Groan, a fourth year with amazing dreadlocks. "But who's with who?"

"Yeah!" exclaimed someone from the back of the huddle. "We have to make it fair!"

Draco Malfoy would have heaved bile at such behavior.

"Well," Ernie began casually, clearly the lone Huffle-jock," I get Justin."

Justin always looked suspicious, like he was being accused of something. He drew his shoulders up. "Eh- I don't want to play... Besides, do you really need teams for tag?"

Hannah was dismayed. "If we don't make teams, then it's one-for-all, in't? And that's against the Hufflepuff way!"

"So what? It doesn't make sense. Tag is a cutthroat game," Justin said tersely. "I won't play." Sending Ernie an angry look for even considering to pick him, he stomped away.

Justin was known widely as the Huffle-poop.

The others were kind of sad, alas they knew he needed his space, so they went on with their nonsensical game of tag.

///

Ernie wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. Sometimes he was too much of a Gryffie for anyone's liking.

"Oi," he said, spotting Justin, reading a thick volume with a deadly scowl. He was under one of the willow trees by the lake, and hardly noticed that anyone was talking to him.

"Oi, you," Ernie said again, and Justin looked somewhere to the left.

Ernie trudged loudly straight in front of Justin and stood with a frown.

Slowly, the book came down.

"You," Justin declared. "Well, what do you want?"

After almost a minute of silence, Ernie pointed down at Justin's face and said a very simple sentence:

"Hey, loserface, tag, you're it."

Justin blinked, and coldly stared right back into the boy's eyes. "You're kidding."

But Ernie was all ready running, running, running.

"Said 'tag', you dumb git!" Ernie screamed from what seemed like miles away.

"Said 'don't do sports'!" Justin yelled back.

"Thought Muggles loved sports!"

"My parents couldn't throw a ball off a building!"

"A what!?"

Sighing, Justin picked up his bookbags, yes, plural. As Ron Weasley once said: "Damn, you carry a lot of useless garbage." (Ron didn't carry lint in his pockets.)

He walked toward the other boy at a sloth-like pace. Finally, Ernie just met him halfway.

"So, you said your Muggle parents threw you from a building?"

"Hardly, though it's probably about the same to most of these people.

"Oh." Ernie didn't know how deep Justin really was. "So... you're gay," was what he said next.

"Yes, you all ready said that twice today."

"Sorry I've never met anyone gay. Besides Millicent Bulstrode, but she's a beast."

"All right."

"Fancy me, then?"

"Shut up."

"Tag. Don't think I've forgotten, tag!" With that, Ernie sprinted off again.

///

Justin hated running, he hated P.E., he hated everything, but he did fancy Ernie.

And so he did run, and he tried to be quick, but he ended up tripping over a mossy stump and down he went.

Ernie turned around from his first place position and saw Justin's newfound position. "Oh dear," he said gravely. "You're not kidding."

"No, I'm really, really not."

"No wonder you're such a cynic."

"I know. I fail at life." Except this was said in such a voice that curly-haired Ernie Macmillan approached Justin with the valor of Viktor Krum and wrapped his arms around the boy's shoulders and rested his forehead against the boy's forehead.

"I just don't know- know, wh-what to do," stammered Justin, who wasn't used to being touched. "I just don't know how to fix it."

Ernie closed his eyes and whispered: "You're it."

fin?