Christmas. Navidad. Año Nuevo. Home.
Nacho wasn’t sure how exactly he was feeling now that his first term at Hogwrats was wrapping up. He’d made a few friends, and bullied, harassed, forced coerced a few others into being his friend, but it wasn’t the same as being with his family. He missed his Papa and he wondered idly if any of them missed him. Letters had been sparse the last few months, but then again, he hadn’t really expected much. Hogwarts was a long way from Spain.
The last activity he had to manage with some semblance of grace and poise before returning home however was the feast and he was starving. This term Nacho had been doing excellently in his etiquette class; Aunt Lucy would have been proud. So, deciding it didn’t matter if he over-served himself a little bit—given the facts— he went about piling his plate high with everything good in sight. (Mostly sugared things, a few savories for the show of it.)
It was just as he was raising a spoonful of cherry tart to his mouth that Nacho felt something splatter against the back of his head. It hit him cold and wet, right in the scalp. Almost instantly, without even looking, he knew who to blame.
Expression darkening, the little Ravenclaw set down his utensils and turned in his seat. He wiped the back of his head with his napkin like a proper upperclassman and sniffed in his cousin’s direction. “Congratulations, you’ve perfectly captured the spirit of a poorly trained circus monkey.” Then, for good measure, he wrinkled his nose. “If you’re trying to start a food fight, at least commit to it. This half-hearted nonsense is just embarrassing.”
Nacho wasn’t sure how exactly he was feeling now that his first term at Hogwrats was wrapping up. He’d made a few friends, and bullied, harassed, forced coerced a few others into being his friend, but it wasn’t the same as being with his family. He missed his Papa and he wondered idly if any of them missed him. Letters had been sparse the last few months, but then again, he hadn’t really expected much. Hogwarts was a long way from Spain.
The last activity he had to manage with some semblance of grace and poise before returning home however was the feast and he was starving. This term Nacho had been doing excellently in his etiquette class; Aunt Lucy would have been proud. So, deciding it didn’t matter if he over-served himself a little bit—given the facts— he went about piling his plate high with everything good in sight. (Mostly sugared things, a few savories for the show of it.)
It was just as he was raising a spoonful of cherry tart to his mouth that Nacho felt something splatter against the back of his head. It hit him cold and wet, right in the scalp. Almost instantly, without even looking, he knew who to blame.
Expression darkening, the little Ravenclaw set down his utensils and turned in his seat. He wiped the back of his head with his napkin like a proper upperclassman and sniffed in his cousin’s direction. “Congratulations, you’ve perfectly captured the spirit of a poorly trained circus monkey.” Then, for good measure, he wrinkled his nose. “If you’re trying to start a food fight, at least commit to it. This half-hearted nonsense is just embarrassing.”