Originally Posted by Felixir

This was the second time Genny Tate had snatched his notebook away, and Daxton resolved to himself that the next time she tried to snatch it, he was going to hit her with it. Hard.

He sat there, watching her write and imagining such an outcome, and why on earth they'd gone from simply turning the notebook back and forth to this overly exuberant grabbing and hoarding. Daxton had seen her face change, but the effect was lost on him. No matter how many facial expressions he himself displayed, Daxton was almost entirely unable to recognise what they meant on other people.

At first he watched Genny Tate write, but quickly became bored because she was taking so very long and also her hair kept getting in the way so that he could not properly see what she was writing. Instead, Daxton sat on the bench and looked out over Diagon Alley, watching the other patrons and taking in the sight of each shop that he could see from here. Eventually, his eyes fell on the book shop and he wondered when his mum might be coming out; he was getting tired.

At last, Daxton became aware that the notebook was being handed back over, and he snatched it back too, this time, seeing as it was his. Very quickly, he scanned through all the things she'd written, essentially missing the angry tone at the start of her words, a tone that would have been evident to many other individuals. He could, at least, tell that she did not agree with him not liking the magical sport, because that was clear from the content of her words.

Genny Tate seemed to have a tendency to tell Daxton that he couldn't do things, things he knew that actually he could do. He could tell a ghost it was illogical, if he wanted, and he could say he didn't like Quidditch, especially if it was true, which it probably was.

... Don't appreciate... blah blah blah... mean and inconsiderate... blah blah blah, nothing he'd not been told before... and then a part that had been crossed out that made Daxton wish he'd been paying more attention when she'd been writing. But no matter, he could probably work out what that said later.

On and on he read, through all the answers that got gradually more informative and useful. Once he was done, Daxton turned onto a fresh page, because they'd run out of space again, and quickly wrote his response.

'Have you considered that you are letting your ignorance cloud your judgement of me for not liking Quidditch? I find it strange that whether or not someone enjoys the sport might influence your opinion of them. Is that ignorant?'

Genuine question; Daxton did not have a great awareness of those sorts of things. It was often why he came across as rude or ignorant himself, though he was highly intelligent (and knew it).

'I am not normal or fun, and I am probably not cool either. I would not like flying on a broomstick.

I am not scared of ghosts or detention.

How can I write to you if I do not know your address? Do owls need addressed envelopes? Can they read them? How do they know where to go? Would I have to speak to it? I assume they do not require stamps.

I do not think I like the idea of a hat that can see into my mind.'

Daxton turned the notebook back, and held onto it tightly this time, with both hands. Because he would absolutely hit her with the notebook if she tried to snatch it again, and would be giving no warnings.

Meanwhile, he was thinking about this Sorting Hat, and feeling quite dubious about the matter.