your slightest look easily will unclose me—e.e. cummings
Meda, he calls her, brushing past her on his way out the door, and she's mid-scowl by the time she realizes he's stuffed parchment in her hand. It's a love poem, chicken-scratched and blurred by hasty ink, and she wishes she didn't know what he'd spent half of Arithmancy writing (now it's that much harder to hold herself in). She has Divination next, but the stark contrast of subject matter does her no good: the verses linger on the foggy air, and Professor Lovegood tells her that her aura is the color of tormented love.
Take a pause; sleep it off; breathe his name.
(theodore.)
A/N: For the EE Cummings Challenge on HPFC. Review!