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chapter eleven, herbology
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DAPHNE'S MANAGED TO AVOID LILY for almost two weeks.
The entire situation hangs awkwardly in the air between them, both of them secretly itching to splinter the silence. She knows that it was never really her problem in the first place and that she should've minded her own bloody beeswax, but she supposes that there's no use regretting the past.
She tries not to be bothered by the way Lily stares at her from afar as though she has the plague or something — key word, tries. Daphne can't exactly remember liking her all that much when she was hurling insults at her over their history notes, but it feels gut wrenchingly odd knowing that she doesn't have that now. Their desk in the library has been abandoned every weekend since the incident; her top marks are even beginning to plummet without Lily's help, though she'd never dare admit it.
The crisp leaves have almost completely drifted off the trees and torrential weather's still sweeping the school grounds, skies streaked grey as downpours become scarily frequent. Wind whistles through the hollow bones of the school, drifting over the withering grounds for one last hurrah before the ice begins to settle. Daphne sits ( ignoring the task at hand ) and watches the glass ceiling of the greenhouse in morbid curiosity, wondering if it'll collapse under the weight of the rain.
She's quickly brought back to reality by her teacher whittling on about something treacherously boring. Daphne catches something about doing plant maintenance for an entire period and has to restrain herself from banging her head against her gnarled desk. A frown tugs at her face when she spots the dark spots freshly inked on her potted plant, reaching for the bottled concoction on her right. Green bubbles fizz around angrily within the glass, the droplets sparking on the blemishes beginning to wash away the splotches. She spritzes it one time too many and the flower wriggles it's orange petals, beginning to nip at her gloved hands in thorny protest.
Daphne groans. "What's wrong with this plant?" she wonders aloud. "How does yours like you so much?"
"I dunno," Roger replies. "I'm naturally charismatic. Have you tried asking it nicely?"
