Her eyes fell to the female who had seen the mark of her poor aim. Because that was what it was, wasn’t it? Poor aim. Any sensible first year would have been shamefaced. She knew, and she felt guilty for not feeling guilty about it. Her eyes fell lower and lower.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, staring at the bits of potato staining the floor. Poor, poor potatoes. Men laboured for you and you end up as rubbish. “I shouldn’t have done it. It was my fault. Though you’d have to be crazy to throw a golden plate for being called a gnome.” she said, wondering if she should continue her quest unto the Hufflepuff table or choose the other route to the Gryffindor’s.