It was true. Perhaps she was just a girl, a lonely, fourteen-year-old red-
haired girl who painted her toenails though no one ever saw and danced
around profusely to the Weird Sisters when no one was watching and would
deny it upon any other circumstance.
But then again, her soul was dark and tortured; her dreams deep and her thoughts deeper. They had all thought that when she'd stare off blankly it'd be for now positive reason, not because she was thinking, oh no.
She'd go and dance in the rain, every time it rained. She went alone, in her uniform, stripping off her robe and shoes 'til it was just her and her skirt and a flimsy button down She dance and laugh with a hoarse laugh, and she wouldn't go in when it stopped, she'd lay, back to the wet grass, breathing heavy.
Her boyfriend fancied her, lots. Yet he didn't like the way she wore dirty socks up to her knees on Saturdays during the winter, and the big bulky sweaters her mum knitted for her, the way she laughed when she was truly laughing rather than giggling, and he'd never dance with her in the rain.
He saw her once. In truth, he would see her every time, like clockwork. One time, in the middle of a humid class in the astronomy tower, he'd caught the vision of her dancing from the high window. He'd been so captivated, so enamored with the way she moved and the expression on her face. And his companions sniggered, making jokes of her brain state. He meant to say he knew she was most intelligent witch in the school, for her face showed that much joy. He bit his tongue.
On an occasion when he watched her dances, he caught himself. Who was she, her poor as dirt family, her ruddy red hair, her too many brothers, to dance about in the rain and be happy like that? He thought of the irony that he was watching her be happy when he felt so bitter; for he had everything and she had nothing. He stopped thinking and she lay on the grass.
Sometimes he'll look up when he's eating; his silver eyes will flit about the room, catching sight of people he knows he's better than. He doesn't feel so superior, and that's another thought that he denies. And then he sees her. The red hair is like a beacon, but she is not the same as when she dances. Her amber eyes miss the glow, her red hair is dry and constricted in a ponytail, and her laugh does not sound a bit the same.
Fewer times, she'll look up and catch his gaze with hers. A glow is there, he likes to think to himself, and perhaps something is alight in this shell of the dancer. They stay there for a moment's time, and then he puts on a disgusted face and she sticks out a pink tongue in an immature manner, turning back to her conversation and he to his.
Once during one of these occasions, a rumble echoed throughout the room, and all looked up as it began to rain. For once they did the same thing, the left, The Dancer and The Audience, Virginia Weasley and Draco Malfoy.
But then again, her soul was dark and tortured; her dreams deep and her thoughts deeper. They had all thought that when she'd stare off blankly it'd be for now positive reason, not because she was thinking, oh no.
She'd go and dance in the rain, every time it rained. She went alone, in her uniform, stripping off her robe and shoes 'til it was just her and her skirt and a flimsy button down She dance and laugh with a hoarse laugh, and she wouldn't go in when it stopped, she'd lay, back to the wet grass, breathing heavy.
Her boyfriend fancied her, lots. Yet he didn't like the way she wore dirty socks up to her knees on Saturdays during the winter, and the big bulky sweaters her mum knitted for her, the way she laughed when she was truly laughing rather than giggling, and he'd never dance with her in the rain.
He saw her once. In truth, he would see her every time, like clockwork. One time, in the middle of a humid class in the astronomy tower, he'd caught the vision of her dancing from the high window. He'd been so captivated, so enamored with the way she moved and the expression on her face. And his companions sniggered, making jokes of her brain state. He meant to say he knew she was most intelligent witch in the school, for her face showed that much joy. He bit his tongue.
On an occasion when he watched her dances, he caught himself. Who was she, her poor as dirt family, her ruddy red hair, her too many brothers, to dance about in the rain and be happy like that? He thought of the irony that he was watching her be happy when he felt so bitter; for he had everything and she had nothing. He stopped thinking and she lay on the grass.
Sometimes he'll look up when he's eating; his silver eyes will flit about the room, catching sight of people he knows he's better than. He doesn't feel so superior, and that's another thought that he denies. And then he sees her. The red hair is like a beacon, but she is not the same as when she dances. Her amber eyes miss the glow, her red hair is dry and constricted in a ponytail, and her laugh does not sound a bit the same.
Fewer times, she'll look up and catch his gaze with hers. A glow is there, he likes to think to himself, and perhaps something is alight in this shell of the dancer. They stay there for a moment's time, and then he puts on a disgusted face and she sticks out a pink tongue in an immature manner, turning back to her conversation and he to his.
Once during one of these occasions, a rumble echoed throughout the room, and all looked up as it began to rain. For once they did the same thing, the left, The Dancer and The Audience, Virginia Weasley and Draco Malfoy.