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Elva Øster Thorn

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Elva Øster Thorn

Sick of being cooped up in the cramped Durmstrang ship, Elva had taken to wandering the halls of Hogwarts, making observations and learning as much as she could about life in this strange place.  She was still nursing the secret wound, which she would never admit to even feeling:  the bitterness and sense of inferiority that came with not being selected as Durmstrang champion.  In some ways, exploring Hogwarts was a temporary salve.  She towered over most of the students, and her imperious gait and straight face meant that few people attempted to talk to her.  She judged them and their school from a distance, allowing herself, for a few fleeting moments, to feel superior in her haughtiness.  How bizarre, that they had to study Muggles!  And how stupid and frankly irresponsible that they did not learn Dark Arts at all, not even the fundamentals.  

 

But today, she wandered into a large room that had caught her eye from the corridor because of the unnatural glinting that seemed to be emanating from it.  It appeared to be a trophy room.  Elva's rabid curiosity consumed her, and she wandered the room slowly, reading every medal and plaque.  It was odd that Hogwarts seemed to give out awards for things other than excellence:  there seemed to be awards for sportsmanship, and kindness, and performing vague "services for the school," that did not give any indication of what the recipients had done to deserve the accolades.


There was an entire trophy case devoted to past Triwizard Tournaments, and Elva froze before it.  She would never, now, be honored in such a display.  This year's Triwizard Tournament had been her one shot to distinguish herself outside of the rigorous walls of Durmstrang, where excellence was expected and only truly superior abilities were recognized at all.  She had failed to even be named a champion, much less win the Triwizard cup for Durmstrang.  It appeared she would be doomed forever to a lifetime of mediocrity.  She might as well live the life of a Muggle, for that was what it felt like to be a half-blood at Durmstrang.  She would spend her life caring for her poor Mudblood mother, who had not been allowed to attend Durmstrang and who therefore had never been taught to control her violent magical outbursts.

 

Tears brimmed in Elva's eyes but she wiped them away with a violent swipe that made her eyes sting all the more.  No, she wouldn't cry.  She would stand here, her back rimrod straight, and stare at the reminder of her failure, her mediocrity, her inferiority. 

 

She read the names of the students who had accomplished what she could not, murmuring their names to herself.  She read of their deeds, and wondered what they had felt.  She wondered what had become of all the people who had put their names in the Goblet of Fire only not to be selected.


Elva stood there a long time, steeling herself.  It was only when she turned around to leave that she noticed she was not alone.

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