Poppy
For what seemed like the millionth time, Poppy let out a groan of despair and savagely wiped the lipstick off her mouth. She just could not get it right! It was either so light that it couldn't be seen or it was so dark that she looked like what her mother had labelled "women of doubtful reputation". Make-up was not really her strong point. As the matron, she didn't wear it on a regular basis. Poppy had always fallen into the category of "pretty girls", with her big, brown doe-eyes, heart shaped face and warm smile. During her teenage years, she'd been so pretty that she'd broken approximately 65 hearts, according to the extensive charts that a teenage Minerva had drawn up on the subject. That had all been done without make-up. But, as she aged, she felt that her natural beauty would need a helping hand if it was to achieve the same effect. Not that Poppy had a particular wish to break hearts tonight. In fact, her desire was the complete opposite; she wished to win a heart.
Poppy had spent her entire life being mostly oblivious (usually intentionally) to the affections of the men who pursued her. So, she wondered, was it some kind of sick irony that, when she finally found someone to care about, he was completely unaware of how she felt? Filius Flitwick was, she'd concluded a long time ago, special. He was a gentleman, in the true sense of the word, always polite, discreet, kind. He'd been so good to her when she'd first begun at Hogwarts; with only a few years of teaching behind him, he had understood how it felt to be new. Poppy couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when her feelings for Filius had moved past friendship. She just remembered having smiled at something he'd said, brushing off Rolanda's teasing and then thinking, with a slightly painful jolt, my God, I think I love him. That had been a couple years ago. She hadn't yet worked up the courage to tell him plainly how she felt. And her hinting had, thus far, done nothing.
Still, she continued to hint. She continued to laugh and smile and hang on to every word. She continued to get dressed up for occasions like this, in the hope that he might notice. He never did. And, after so long, Poppy began to wonder if, maybe, he was never going to. It was this feeling that had been causing her mood, making her angry at times and nervous and emotional at others. Sitting in the staff room earlier, staring at the jumping flames, wrapped in her coma of confusion, she'd decided that she couldn't live like this. It was getting too hard. Tonight, at the ball, was going to be the final stand, a last-ditch attempt to convey the feelings she found so hard to voice. That was why she needed her make-up to be perfect.
Her hand shaking slightly, she gently applied her lipstick one more time and decided that it would have to suffice. Looking in the mirror, she stared intently into her own eyes, frozen for a second, and then let out a sigh.
"You're pathetic," she said out loud, "A grown woman and just look at you!"
Would her friends think she was pathetic, for the way she was going on about Filius? She'd never discussed it with them, though she suspected some had probably guessed. She certainly wasn't going to tell them that she'd bought a new dress especially for the ball. The deep red satin and chiffon creation suited her, the "belle of the ball" as Rolanda had said, but the amount she'd paid for something that she was only going to wear once was ridiculous. Minerva most probably would think that, although it was hard to tell with her. Pomona too, as the squat little witch put little value on material things. Aurora would think it extravagant, but pretty, and be very nice about the whole thing. Rolanda would probably laugh and take it as confirmation that her (perfectly correct) suspicions about Poppy were true. The only one who wouldn't think much of it would be Septima. But she always seemed to wearing clothes that cost more than her house, so could hardly be considered a good example of rational spending.
Poppy looked at the clock, the ticking of the second ringing in her ears, the clanging chimes counting down to her impending doom. That was perhaps a little too dramatic, but she really was nervous now, the butterflies in her stomach feeling more like bloody great hippogriffs. What if he doesn't notice, a little voice in her head was whispering, what will you do then? Poppy didn't know how to answer, because an even quieter voice was saying hopefully, what if he does?
