𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 |𝐃.𝐌

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄 | 𝐡 𝐨 𝐠 𝐬 𝐦 𝐞 𝐚 𝐝 𝐞

"𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡, 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠'𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭."
-'Foolish one' by Taylor Swift

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HEMERA

“And instead of saying something along the lines of ‘have a lovely weekend and get some rest’ before dismissing us, she gave us a five-page-long assignment on electric devices that can solemnly be spotted in muggle kitchens.” Lucas’ intonation shifts between the high-pitched imitation of Professor Charity’s voice and his own complaining tone, as he picturesquely narrates the incident that, according to him, made his sense of reason evade his skull earlier today.

“I joined this class to learn about computers and take over my uncle’s store and now I’m forced to write an entire essay on stupid blenders people use to make banana smoothies.” He props an elbow onto the wooden table and uses his forefinger and thumb to smooth out his eyebrows. The movement carries little casualty and an obvious amount of suppressed indignation, nearly matching the amount hidden in his sigh.

“Five pages in just two days is a felony, especially when the subject is unprecedented and writing about it requires hours of profound research to say the least,” I say into the rim of my butterbeer mug, gulping down the first sip of the cloying drink before licking my lips clean from the layer of thick butterscotch-flavored foam framing my mouth.

“Well, she’s run out of fucks to give, that’s for sure.”

I’m not exactly surprised to see that my attempted reassurance didn’t deliver the solace I was hoping it would, but I refuse to hold myself accountable for my cliche words of consolation when I put effort into coming up with something to say in the first place. When it comes to Blaise or Theo whining about homework, telling them to suck it up is easier because I don’t quite care about making my words sound pretty and thoughtful.

“Tell Zabini he’s a lucky man for breaking his arm on cue.” He mumbles, long fingers curling around his glass as he picks it up. His lips part around the brim and my focus helplessly drops to his mouth like the soft flesh pulled out a neon flag and started to wave it in my face. I always knew that my concentration wasn’t of steel and getting sidetracked easily has been the bane of my existence since birth but I find it hard to process how such an ordinary action can have such a cosmic effect on me— if readjusting myself in my seat and uncrossing my legs just to cross them again counts as a monumental reaction.

Lucas’ presence, the way his mouth moves around each syllable, and the low gravel embedded in his voice make it hard for me to focus on much else; even if ‘much else’ means his own words.

I manage to pull myself out of my thoughts just in time to answer without a suspicious delay. “I don’t know if Blaise is the lucky one here. Had he not been excluded from the project, not even my great-grandchildren would have lived to hear the end of it.”

Lucas laughs and it reminds me of how thankful I am to be sitting, for the reliability of the chair legs surpasses that of my limbs that go completely boneless as the warmth of the merry sound blasts through my ears. At this very moment, as I sit across from him and feel the corners of my lips being pulled into an embarrassingly wide smile that abides by no rules of suppression, I think to myself if this is how it ought to be.