She finally wanders outside again and lands a modeling agent before the week is out. In some people's eyes, she is beautiful. In someone's green eyes, she was immaculate.
The clothes they make her wear are odd and suddenly she finds herself pining for that itchy heather gray skirt. But decisions were made and besides, she burned that skirt.
The flashbulbs pop and all she can see are spots and stars. In the back of her mind, she knows the spell to get that same effect, but she presses her lips tighter together into a look of apathy so that she can hide her sadness.
A male model with a name she didn't catch and a face she doesn't care for sidles up to her because the photographer wants chemistry. She stares just above his eyes and imagines a lightning bolt scar—the mark of a hero, which this man most certainly is not.
He touches her arm and she flinches hard, then apologizes. It's just a job. You wanted to move forward….Harry wouldn't mind.
Harry can't mind, she snarls back to herself. He's gone.
The other model asks her out for a drink and she knows that none of the bars in Manhattan serve butterbeer. But she says yes anyway because maybe what the Muggles have will make her forget.
