Disclaimer: The world and characters of Harry Potter belong to J.K. Rowling, not to me.
A/N: Written for The Characterization Competition at HPFC. Thanks for reading and reviewing.
Huge thanks to SoUsay234 for being such a great beta!
-:-
"One day a long time from now you'll cease to care anymore whom you please or what anybody has to say about you." –J.D. Salinger
They whisper.
"We're perfect, you know?"
"You want to be us."
"You want to be real, don't you, Daphne? You want to be a real girl."
"Come on. Can't you just taste it? The way it will be?"
"You want to be us."
"One word and then you'll be real. That's what you want, isn't it?"
"Say yes."
Slowly, Daphne shakes her head.
They smile.
It's a bitter smile, but it's there all the same.
"That's what we said the first time, too."
"We'll be back."
"But we don't wait long."
"Watch yourself, Daphne. Think it over."
"Think about what being real would be like."
"Just one word."
Daphne watches them go.
-:-
They don't come back that first month.
It's just her, in the Common Room, surrounded by piles of paper and broken quills and books and a few scattered wishes (and maybe that's a dream in the corner).
And she wonders what it's like to be real.
Not to exist – she knows what that's like, of course, because she's not crazy and she knows that this is reality and that she exists.
But to be real. Alive, thriving, happy. To be a girl. A real girl with tight jeans and long hair and a boy on each arm. Tut she has all that, doesn't she? There's something else, she thinks as she watches a few girls wander in with cheeks flushed from laughing all the way down to the dungeons. There's something so real about them, and for the life of her she can't put her polished finger on exactly what. But whatever it is, she doesn't have it, and oh, that's what she wants more than anything.
She plucks the quills bare one by one, and she waits.
-:-
Half of the second month passes, and she's alone.
She does her assignments and goes to the Great Hall to eat. Mindlessly, always mindlessly. She doodles in the corner of her parchments, always the same words.
-r
beautiful
-a
-l
And she doesn't know which is more important or if they can even coexist.
But she wants to be both. And she can only think that when they come back, the word "yes" will slip from her lips no matter how fervently her head shakes "no".
Is it worth the price?
-:-
It's only a week later that they arrive.
They accost her in the Common Room, at two a.m. She's not quite sure how they got in, but it doesn't really matter, does it?
"Daphne."
"What do you say?"
And their smiles aren't at all genuine, not with those too-white teeth and too-painted lips, but they've all got that something that real girls have.
Daphne reaches up to brush her blonde hair out of her face, hands only shaking a little bit, and closes her eyes for a moment.
When she opens them, her lips form the word "yes". It's not out loud, but it's enough.
They swoop upon her, their painted smiles and lined eyes widening and widening until they look like caricatures, much too perfect if there is such a thing, and she starts to feel sick.
"You'll be happy."
"You've made the right choice, Daphne."
"You're one of us now."
"Beautiful."
"Real."
"You'll be a real girl."
"Just like us."
Daphne shakes her head, but the damage is done.
-:-
One of them follows Daphne to her dorms and sits on her bed, looking expectant.
"We've been told you're special," the girl says at Daphne's questioning look. "You're going to save us. You are, aren't you?" And the girl's eyes are bright, too bright, and Daphne recognizes panic when she sees it.
"I don't know," Daphne says. "I don't know how."
"Save me," the girl pleads, panic giving way to desperation as she leans forward. "Save us."
Daphne wants to back away but she can't. There's something so real, so raw, about this girl, and oh Daphne wants to be her, even in all her misery.
"I don't even know your name," Daphne says.
"It's Tracey. Tracey Davis."
Daphne sighs. "The Mark won't help me save you," she says. "We'll just fall together, instead."
Tracey claws at her own arms with her long red nails. "But you're different," she says. "You have to be."
"No," Daphne says. "Trust me, Tracey. I'm the last person you want to be your saviour. I'm not even real." She draws out the word with all of her hopelessness mingled in it.
"You want to know a secret?" Tracey says, her voice dropping to a whisper. She leans forward on Daphne's bed, her eyes locking with Daphne's.
Daphne nods slowly.
"None of us are."
Silence.