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chapter five, defence against the dark arts
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NEARLY A MONTH INTO THE TERM, and Daphne is totally fed up with the entire curriculum!
( With the obvious exception of music. She adores music. )
To put it simply: there seems to be the itching feeling of brain rot seeping into her skull the second she sits down and opens her books in just about any class. Completely zoning out at her desk has become her familiar friend, as well as ignoring all the warnings spat at her like sharp cherry pits. It's not Daphne's fault at all that the words in her nonsensical textbooks blur together into nothing before her eyes, or how impossible it can be to make any sense out of Flitwick's handwriting when it's written in smudged chalk — actually, now that she's reflecting on it, maybe she just needs glasses. But the point is: evenwithLily Evans' antagonistic approach to tutoring being hammered into her skull, nothing seems to be truly connecting the stray puzzle pieces in her scatterbrain.
In her own defence, Daphne's mind has been somewhere else completely! She's drowning in a maelstrom of demerits and rumours, well aware of the whispers that surround her like a persistent storm cloud. Everyone at Hogwarts seems to enjoy gossip, leeching off the slightest fault or hiccup in Daphne's life which in turn crowns her as the pariah of her year. Besides, grief still has her asphyxiating in it's iron fist, which makes it hard to look into the mist of a crystal ball without seeing the headstone that haunts her every time she closes her eyes.
And to all that, she says: Je m'en fou!
The rain clouds outside had dissipated into a bleak angelite sky, a woodland choir rustling amongst the curling bracken. Mud from the stormy weather lingers in the very crevices of the grass to speckle her once-sparkling shoes, the weather's apparent vendetta against her as prominent as ever. Other students lounge on the grounds and turn the still air into a mixing bowl of respective boredom and laughter. There are a few ripples streaking over the surface of the murky loch before them — an indication that life swirls in it's depths. Even Romeo's out chasing a red admiral down the hill with a jingling collar, tripping over his racing paws as his trinity of tails swish in excitement at the rain's absence.
