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*.
It was unsatisfying, the glass bottle shattering against the low end of the sprawling castle, tucked far away from the Great Hall. Far away from the scattered masses of reds and blues and greens.
And fucking yellows.
"Cause'a some... asshat!" He thumbed at his nose, pleased with himself at the cleverness of the metaphor. He chuckled, swaying woozily on his feet.
The thousand plus year institution to magic and wizardry was no match for a Milkovich scorned. Certainly not one who had frightened some kitchen elves into forking over a pack of cold beer on his way out, shoving past oblivious first years and into the cold night.
"Wow! You've got great aim, Mickey!" He turned to face the curious faces peering at him from around the corner, stacked vertically atop one another like a cherubic totem pole.
"Maybe try one with the butterbeer still in it, Mickey!" A dopey face was peering encouragingly at him, her gap-toothed smile as bright and innocent as could be. "It'll look cooler!"
"Yeah, it'll create a fizzier mess!" the others agreed.
"I thought I told you to can it, Puffles." He shot a dirty look at the handful of smiling, seraphic faces, unnerved as they stood watch in anticipation, not a single one appreciating the weight of Mickey's newly shouldered trauma.
He eyed the collection of bottles on the grass next to him. A part of him hoped that a professor, or any sort of school-adjacent adult would spot him, pilfered alcohol in his possession, making a vandalized mess of their institution, and send him back to the group home. At least there, he and his brothers were inseparable.
He guzzled another bottle in a rapid succession of gulps, wiping the remainder off of his chin with the back of his hand. He gasped an exhale as he caught his breath, willing the cold beer to drift him into a state of bliss before he Incendio’d this place to the ground.
"You can't burn a stone building, Mickey," one of the boys in yellow laughed, good-naturedly.
The empty bottle in Mickey's hand went whizzing at the boy's head. They watched as it flailed by them, missing them by several feet.
"I thought I told you to shut the fuck up, Brooks!"
Brooks stood frozen in place, eyes wide and nodding obediently. "It's-- it's just that you said-- you see, Incendio only applies to--"
"Did I ask you for a fuckin' translation?"
"You were talking to yourself--"
"Are you retarded?"
"Yes...yes. I'm-- yes, I'm retarded."
"And you," he pointed to the group of them, "Quit standing there starin' at me. S'fuckin weird."
He hauled back, and flung his boot at the wall. It landed with an empty thud, falling right into the middle of the shards scattered on the ground.
Mickey's blood pressure soared, even higher than it had an hour ago, when the Sorting Hat kicked him in the proverbial taint, right in front of students, professors, pocket pets, and with fuckin' Merlin as his witness.
"Hufflepuff!", it roared. He could still feel the blood freezing in his veins, see the dumbstruck confusion on Iggy and Colin's slack-jawed faces, surrounded by a stunned silent table of green.
He was shaken from his mourning by a smug asshole standing several yards to his right. "Yeah, can you stop doing that? Please?" His eyes slid groggily to the short blonde approaching him with one hand held out cautiously. "That's kinda my home tower, now, you know? I'd like to make it past my first day without getting shanked by flying shrapnel.”
"Well, if it isn't the asshole from the train." He vaguely recalled seeing the boy earlier in the day, in his own booth surrounded by older girls in red, batting his big blue eyes at them, munching on the last of the desserts from the service cart. "Gryffindor, huh? Must make you some kinda know-it-all." He sneered at him, expression dripping with disgust.
The boy shrugged, eyeing the yellow under Mickey's robes. He tilted his chin in their direction. "And what does that make you?"
Mickey grumbled as he swayed. "It's that old leather potatosack's fault, anyway. Don't know who died and made him the goddamn Potatosack Decider. Fuckin'..." he gestured his hand dramatically in the air, words failing him.
The boy nodded slowly, eyebrows raised in question. He peered over his shoulder at the close-knit pack of Hufflepuffs watching over their newest member with concern, hidden almost out of sight.
"If I'm not a Slytherin, then how am I supposed to make it through seven years of this shit?" Mickey's voice cracked with genuine sadness. "Now I'm gonna have to make some sorta love potion in a dungeon full of squealing girls."
"Pretty sure Slytherins have to do that, too, man." He bunched up his eyebrows in consideration. "But your guy's common room is right next to the kitchen, right? That must be nice to have access to all the snacks at 2am." There was something encouraging in his tone, and Mickey didn't like it.
"It's true!" the tiniest of Mickey's housemates squeaked. "Let us bake you a cake, tonight, Mickey! Your new best friend Lip can have some, too!"
"Ay, Puffleheads!" the brunet shouted at the bunch. "What part of beat it did you not understand?"
"We'll be waiting right over here, Mickey!" They scampered over to the nearest tree, ducking behind it, their light-hearted giggles carrying into the otherwise quiet night.
His flat-eared sour cat glower was bolstered by the sincerity of their unconditional support and acceptance. "Jesus christ...wear my name out, why don’t you." He scrubbed a hand down his face. "Those chuckle-fucks'll be the death of me."
He reached for another bottle, popping off the metal cap with his back molar, an old trick Colin taught him before the older boy had plucked his own tooth out, requiring quick attention from the discount magical medical house a few blocks down.
"Mind if I have one?" Lip asked.
"If you think you can handle it, choir boy, then knock yourself out."
Lip didn't have the heart to tell Mickey that there is no alcohol in butterbeer. It was the equivalent of what muggles call cream soda.
They sipped in silence, Lip considering something.
"Probably not all bad, though, right? Having your own fanclub?" Mickey scowled, but let Lip continue, "Like a pack. I'm pretty sure they'd follow you anywhere. It's like you're their designated leader."
Something flashed across Mickey's eyes.
"...And cake doesn't sound half bad, either. I thought for sure I was gonna make Ravenclaw. Now I'm stuck in Gryffindor with my sister. She expects me to carry all her shit around for her." He pointed up to the top of the tower, way, way above Mickey's liquid splatter mural. "Her and her friends are up there right now, waiting to chat my ear off about whatever's pissing them off today. Boys, probably. I'm not built for that."
"I am their leader, aren't I?" Mickey said, ignoring Lip's whining completely. His eyes glowed with possibility. "Naturally. They need one. Keep 'em from falling off a cliff, or whatever."
"You mean like lemmings?"
Mickey's features sharpened, like a cat preparing to pounce. "Yeah, that's it. Ay, lemmings!" Five heads popped up, delighted to be addressed. "Which one'a you is gonna fetch my boot so we can get me some cake?"
They jumped in place, clapping and cheering with gleeful smiles. Brooks stumbled over his robes in a mad dash to collect the abandoned boot.
Already walking away from his mess, Mickey called over his shoulder. "You comin'?"
Lip laughed. "For free cake? Yeah, I'm in." He shuffled forward, catching up to Mickey's stride. "Besides, everyone knows that Hufflepuffs have the best weed."
They laughed deviously, Lip flicking his wand subtly in the direction of the shattered glass, cleaning up the mess without a word.
*.
One year later, a very loud, visibly upset child sat throwing a tantrum under the Sorting Hat, pleading with the adults to undo the decree.
“That’s not what I said! That’s NOT WHAT I SAID!!” He yanked the hat from his head, short red curls bouncing with fury. “I SAID I wanted GRYFFINDOR!”
“That’s okay, sweetie!” Lip’s older sister cooed to him from her table. “Hufflepuff’s not so bad, ya know?”
The boy slammed the hat onto the ground, kicking at it, garnering gasps of shock and horror from everyone in the Great Hall.
All except for one.
Mickey sat reclined cooly at an angle, one leg bent up onto the bench, wrist resting on his knee, watching Ian Gallagher’s theatrics with a vested interest.
Hufflepuffs of all ages turned towards him, looking to their hero for a reaction to the brash new member of their team.
The bespectacled boy next to him smiled up at Mickey knowingly. “What flavor cake shall we make him, sir?”
Mickey grinned back at him. “Make it pancakes, Brooks. This kid looks feral.”
*.