Tell Me, I Need to Know It, When Do the Good Things Start

Simon woke up every morning, with a thought that today would be a little different, today he would do well in class without trying, he would not embarrass himself, he would do well on the Quidditch pitch, his father would be proud. Today he was convincing himself of the same, feeling hope and excitement raise for the day.

That was when he looked at the class and realized he was late.

After skipping breakfast and running into class a minute late, receiving less than happy remarks from the professor, Simon felt all of his hopes start to fall. But he stopped himself. A pretty girl had giggled at one of his muttered snipes, he had received an essay with an Excellent, as opposed to his usual Passable. The sky was a little clearer, good Quidditch weather.

Not terrible.

It seemed that he had the approval of most of the people around him. Nothing like “Simon, you're brilliant, amazing, and we think you are just about the coolest kid in Hogwarts. Every girl wants you, every boy wants to be you, and you're generally everyone's favorite guy!” No, he shot for that approval but he often fell short. The sort of approval he felt he received was “You're a good man, Simon McLaggen.”

Was that because by some fluke he was put in the house of intelligence even though he was rather dumb? Or because he was typically a gentleman? Or because he was too clueless to be mean? Or that he tried very hard at everything, managed to fail at everything, but still managed to act like he did everything like a pro, even if his self confidence was really at zero? He was fairly sure he was a good man. He just was not sure what that meant.

He wanted to be better than good. He wanted to be important, significant, popular, well-liked, loved, some sort of stereotype of perfection. But perfection was hard off for even fairly significant people, let alone a gawky, awkward Ravenclaw who really did not succeed in anything. He was nothing significant. Nothing important. He was not good. He was not bad. He was something in between.

After lunch, he hurried off to the study room as he always did, to desperately try and succeed at the thing that Ravenclaws were notorious for excelling in without even drawing a sweat; school. He gathered all his books and opened them, pulling them close and feverishly reading through, trying to cram in all the information that came so naturally to everyone else in Ravenclaw. After this, he would go socialize, see if his skills there had improved. And then onto the pitch. Maybe, just maybe, if he continued to try hard... he would be something.