~*~
"It'll be better this way," he tells her his eyes gently appraising her.
Her. Her scarlet cloak is near tatters and her cinnamon coloured tresses are curled and flying in her face with each streak of wind. The young girl's cheeks are the colours of peppermint candy, and just as sweet. She almost looks cold. Almost.
She never got cold. It was just one of those odd things. Even in the snow, even in the rain and the wind. Even when the furnace or heath wasn't on during the night. For she was a warm girl on the inside, in her heart, and thus she never became cold.
"If you think so," she says looking towards the pavement, "if you think so," she says almost as if she was trying to persuade herself.
"I know so," he replies evenly, leaning against the fence.
She doesn't like him much now. Then again, she never really liked him much.
Then the rain starts coming, floating down from the Heavens. Except it wasn't just like that, it was roaring and pounding down upon the grounds. The girl doesn't even bother to put the hood of her cloak up. She stands there, toughly, an army of one.
Ah, yes, an army of one. It was often like that.
The boy roughly puts the hood of his velvet cloak up. It covers his head, for he got cold often. And equally, his heart was cold.
She could only warm him so long.
His whitish blond hair was visible, still. It was damp, and almost became curly. Almost. It wavered and blew into his eyes as he gingerly brushed it away.
Awkwardly she crossed her ankles and bit her lip.
"You know," he says in a condescending manner, for (she mused) he always was condescending, "I really did love you."
She looks at him, with this hidden fury in her eyes.
Taking a step away from the fence she feigns a grin, "If this is love," she mutters coldly, "I'd rather be dead."
He puts a slim finger to her lip, as if to silence her.
Of course, she never took well to being silenced.
"I don't want to ever hear you say that again," he chides her softly.
"I, frankly, sweetie don't care what you want to hear or what you don't want to hear," the young girl says uncrossing her ankles.
She was never that docile, either.
He peers at her in this way that says 'watch it you' and then puts his elbows up upon the fence.
Obviously, he was not moving. And neither was she.
The wind continued to blow and her fingers turned an odd purple and gray colour, the colour of bruises, she muses. She still wasn't cold though.
He makes a move towards her, and takes off his cloak, as if to wrap it around her shoulders. She stops him with one hand.
"Don't bother," she says.
"Aren't you-"
"No."
"You never get cold," he tells her.
"No," she agrees, pulling a piece of hair back, "I don't."
"It's a bit odd though," the tall young man muses.
"I guess. Oh! Remember that time-" and then, she cuts herself off.
"What time?" he inquires.
"Nothing," she says, tearing her eyes away from his.
He pulls his warm cloak back on and shivers slightly.
She picked up on the '-shiver-' she was odd and nurturing like that. She simply cared about people and their shivering.
"You cold?"
"No," he says, putting on a brave face, "no way."
"You're cold," she says pointedly.
"How do you know?" he asks, unsure.
"It isn't hard to tell," the girl replies perhaps a bit smugly, "you're an open book, you know."
"What are you bloody prattling about?"
"Listen, sweetie," she tells him impatiently, "regardless of your opinion, or anyone else's for that matter. I know you. Yes, I know, you think it's impossible for anyone to actually know you, but I do. I learned to know you. Every crevice. Every hole. Every-" she pauses.
"Every insecurity."
"What else do you know?" he asks, amused with her knowledge and to be honest, a bit suspicious.
"I know that you still love me," the girl chuckles softly to herself. "It's no secret, really."
The boy returns the chuckle and says, "Oh really? Then why, if you don't mind me asking, am I breaking up with you, oh omniscient one?"
She raises her dark brows at him, "You're scared."
"Of-"
"Of everything. You were set to marry Parkinson, and let's face it; you're so scared right now. You don't have the guts or good decency to defy the one thing that controls your every move. You will marry Parkison. You will have gorgeous, black-licorice haired children. And you will be making the biggest mistake of your life in the process." She tells him; this, and she would have laughed-
Had it not been such a serious thing, of course.
He closes his eyes slowly, as if envisioning all of these things.
And then, she puts her delicate pale hands upon her hips and says in the toughest voice he'd ever heard:
"But that's okay. Because it won't be my mistake."
Then, she turns her back on him and trudges back to Hogwarts. She defiantly begins to stomp lightly in the puddles.
And she can't help but feel this fleeting second when, for once, she actually feels cold. Cold. So cold. Chilled to the bone.
She has lost her path.
For, in good time, his pain will finally be her pain as well. A melting pot of pain and pleasure all mixed into one-
A cold melting pot.
~*~
La Fin
"It'll be better this way," he tells her his eyes gently appraising her.
Her. Her scarlet cloak is near tatters and her cinnamon coloured tresses are curled and flying in her face with each streak of wind. The young girl's cheeks are the colours of peppermint candy, and just as sweet. She almost looks cold. Almost.
She never got cold. It was just one of those odd things. Even in the snow, even in the rain and the wind. Even when the furnace or heath wasn't on during the night. For she was a warm girl on the inside, in her heart, and thus she never became cold.
"If you think so," she says looking towards the pavement, "if you think so," she says almost as if she was trying to persuade herself.
"I know so," he replies evenly, leaning against the fence.
She doesn't like him much now. Then again, she never really liked him much.
Then the rain starts coming, floating down from the Heavens. Except it wasn't just like that, it was roaring and pounding down upon the grounds. The girl doesn't even bother to put the hood of her cloak up. She stands there, toughly, an army of one.
Ah, yes, an army of one. It was often like that.
The boy roughly puts the hood of his velvet cloak up. It covers his head, for he got cold often. And equally, his heart was cold.
She could only warm him so long.
His whitish blond hair was visible, still. It was damp, and almost became curly. Almost. It wavered and blew into his eyes as he gingerly brushed it away.
Awkwardly she crossed her ankles and bit her lip.
"You know," he says in a condescending manner, for (she mused) he always was condescending, "I really did love you."
She looks at him, with this hidden fury in her eyes.
Taking a step away from the fence she feigns a grin, "If this is love," she mutters coldly, "I'd rather be dead."
He puts a slim finger to her lip, as if to silence her.
Of course, she never took well to being silenced.
"I don't want to ever hear you say that again," he chides her softly.
"I, frankly, sweetie don't care what you want to hear or what you don't want to hear," the young girl says uncrossing her ankles.
She was never that docile, either.
He peers at her in this way that says 'watch it you' and then puts his elbows up upon the fence.
Obviously, he was not moving. And neither was she.
The wind continued to blow and her fingers turned an odd purple and gray colour, the colour of bruises, she muses. She still wasn't cold though.
He makes a move towards her, and takes off his cloak, as if to wrap it around her shoulders. She stops him with one hand.
"Don't bother," she says.
"Aren't you-"
"No."
"You never get cold," he tells her.
"No," she agrees, pulling a piece of hair back, "I don't."
"It's a bit odd though," the tall young man muses.
"I guess. Oh! Remember that time-" and then, she cuts herself off.
"What time?" he inquires.
"Nothing," she says, tearing her eyes away from his.
He pulls his warm cloak back on and shivers slightly.
She picked up on the '-shiver-' she was odd and nurturing like that. She simply cared about people and their shivering.
"You cold?"
"No," he says, putting on a brave face, "no way."
"You're cold," she says pointedly.
"How do you know?" he asks, unsure.
"It isn't hard to tell," the girl replies perhaps a bit smugly, "you're an open book, you know."
"What are you bloody prattling about?"
"Listen, sweetie," she tells him impatiently, "regardless of your opinion, or anyone else's for that matter. I know you. Yes, I know, you think it's impossible for anyone to actually know you, but I do. I learned to know you. Every crevice. Every hole. Every-" she pauses.
"Every insecurity."
"What else do you know?" he asks, amused with her knowledge and to be honest, a bit suspicious.
"I know that you still love me," the girl chuckles softly to herself. "It's no secret, really."
The boy returns the chuckle and says, "Oh really? Then why, if you don't mind me asking, am I breaking up with you, oh omniscient one?"
She raises her dark brows at him, "You're scared."
"Of-"
"Of everything. You were set to marry Parkinson, and let's face it; you're so scared right now. You don't have the guts or good decency to defy the one thing that controls your every move. You will marry Parkison. You will have gorgeous, black-licorice haired children. And you will be making the biggest mistake of your life in the process." She tells him; this, and she would have laughed-
Had it not been such a serious thing, of course.
He closes his eyes slowly, as if envisioning all of these things.
And then, she puts her delicate pale hands upon her hips and says in the toughest voice he'd ever heard:
"But that's okay. Because it won't be my mistake."
Then, she turns her back on him and trudges back to Hogwarts. She defiantly begins to stomp lightly in the puddles.
And she can't help but feel this fleeting second when, for once, she actually feels cold. Cold. So cold. Chilled to the bone.
She has lost her path.
For, in good time, his pain will finally be her pain as well. A melting pot of pain and pleasure all mixed into one-
A cold melting pot.
~*~
La Fin