Favorite Muggleborns headcanons (1/?)
Muggle born hiphop ciphers for magical rituals…
We never hear about parents’ weekend at Hogwarts. I’ve lived and worked at three boarding schools. No parents’ weekend? No grandparents’ weekend? No Visitor’s Day? No Homecoming? No Alumni Day? All those wizarding families just give their gold out of their Gringott’s Vaults out of the goodness of their hearts? The new wing of the restricted section of the library got built by magic, did it? No sweat or new marble or not so much as a 2x4 stick of lumber was purchased?
The daring muggleborn mother who first came to Hogwarts for Visitors’ Day boarded the train at platform 9 3/4s on a Thursday shortly after 10, came up from London in the usual way. None of the wizarding families would sit with her, with her fake Dolce and Gabbana purse, £3.50 sunglasses from Boots, and a small flask of liquid courage — A Balvanie 18-year scotch, mind you, not something from potions class.
She took the tour of the building with a bewildered pureblood Hufflepuff and a seventh-year Slytherin who was fascinated by the smell of sweaty fear that rolled off her, and spent the entire tour trying to collect some in a materia bottle for the potions labs class. Yet here she was — looking around the dormitories, frowning at the state of the cobwebs, none of that in her flat at home. She was startled the first time a painting tried to make conversation, but by the end of the visit one of the Headless Horsemen was courteously making introductions for her. The muggleborn are formidable when they dare set foot in Hogwarts — an ancient reputation for viciousness precedes them, and even — especially — ghosts give them their due.
She attends the Parents Reception alone. No one makes conversation with her, no one speaks to her. When she approaches the food table, the small talk ceases. A house elf admires her scarf, and says something nice about it. Unthinking, she takes it off her neck and gives it to the elf, not realizing about etiquette. Aghast, the purebloods watch in horror, and can do nothing.
She attends a Quiddich match the first year, seems bewildered. Makes an effort during the spring to understand the rules. Brings Professor Flitwick begonias, and vervain (Verbena officinalis) for his greenhouse.
But Mrs. Lesley — that’s her name, but of course she was Diana Dodgson before she was married — returns. Every term, she comes up for Visitors Day, to see her son’s school, listen to the speech from the Head, and frown at the state of the library. Eventually, the owls even start delivering her the official invitation, though her neighbors at home are always startled by the lost owl wandering around the patios in the early daylight. Her husband doesn’t come — mutters about an important day in the City, mustn’t be off his game. It’s not until her fifth year, her tenth Visitors Day, that another muggle woman, Delores from Aberystwyth, comes with her, to see this weird school her daughter attends. They waited another year and a half before Carolyn joins them, from Norwich.
And then Delores turns to them at the Head’s Reception. She’s shorter than the other two, but more hot-headed. “Darryl is coming with me next year. And there’s one or two other parents we should ask. WE should form a committee.”