I feel his eyes on my back, moving up to my brown hair, to the top of my head, finally passing to Molly who was speaking to him in a rather one-sided conversation. I keep my back to him, not wanting to show my weakness again to him. The tears, as unwelcome as they were, threaten to run down my hardened face, but I managed not to wipe away the visible tears with clumsy fingers. As hard as it was not to turn my face toward his older one, I manage to keep my eyes fixed on the bread I was eating.

They've all told me not to give up hope that he'll see the error in his ways, every single one of them have told me that he'll come around. Molly told me that in the beginning, Arthur wasn't so excited about the idea of marrying during a brutal war. Minerva told me not to worry about it; she told me that he just needed a little convincing. Snape laughed as he was told of my feelings and the rejection thrown at me. Professor Dumbledore simply smiled the smile he always gets when he knows what will come, the twinkling in his eyes coming back for a moment.

They all told me that I was never that easily discouraged before, and they act as though his words were just a mere concern about my age, his lack of Galleons, his condition, not as the rejection I see it as. They tell me to talk to him about it, to say that I won't give up on this matter. The truth, though they wouldn't believe it if I told them, is that I think I've already given up.

His eyes are back on my hair, this time not moving around constantly. I can practically read his mind about what he thinks when he sees my hair. She's weak, she's not worth my affection, he says in his head, eyeing the ugliest of brown colors that my hair has changed to. She's probably always been that way. One setback will change her for the worst. He doesn't say them aloud; he probably doesn't want anybody to judge him because of them. But he's thinking them without interruption.

I've tried to look strong, but I failed miserably. Everybody can see through the mask I've attempted to hide behind. They all look at me with pity written in their eyes; they all know how hardly I've taken all of this. Now, when they glance at me, sympathy displayed in their expressions, I harden my face, attempt to place a strong and in control look upon my face, but they know that's not what I'm feeling.

His eyes depart again, looking down at the food that was placed before him. Until this point, I haven't been listening to what the conversations around the table are about, who is talking to who; I sit with my back toward him, hoping that nobody requires me to turn toward him with the art of conversation. Unfortunately, as it always is with me, I hear Molly say my name, urging me to turn about. My clumsy fingers wipe away the unwelcome tears from my face, and I, with the last of my remaining courage, turn to face her and, with doubt as to whether he'll notice it, him.

He notices when I turn around to say a word to Molly; his eyes, as hollow as they seem sometimes, seem to pour into mine. He turns his head and glances down at his food again, willing me not to say a word to him about it now. I too look down at the nearly fill bowl of soup in front of me before deciding to go. As was the fashion now between the two of us, I pick up my things, stand up, and go before anybody can say anything. The table is silent for the moment when I leave, forgetting about dinner and Molly's words that were spoken.

I've given up now for sure.

--

Good? Bad? Any comments (including flames) are welcome. Constructive criticism is especially welcome.

Beth.