You With the Red Curls, You with the Watercolor Eyes

Chapter 15~Mattheo

The rest of the week flies by in a whirl of laughter and smiles. We hang out everyday. Classes are finally interesting, and we do our homework in the library before dinner. Then we play games and relax with the gang. And then we meet up in the Owlry every night so I can teach her Occlumency. 

I have learned more about Della in one weeks than I think I've ever known about another person. She likes night walks, but hates running. She plays the violin, and can dance like a leaf in the wind. She likes gold jewelry, not silver, and never wears bracelets. But she likes rings and necklaces. She writes poetry and keeps a diary. She's never skipped a class, and always gets good grades. She loves animals, and supposedly is an amazing swimmer. She hates being rich and wishes people would treat her like a normal person. Like how I do, she says.

She ordered the dress I picked out that first night we were back. It arrived today during mail call in the morning while we were eating breakfast. 

It's Friday, so the party is tonight. Everyone won't shut up about it. I don't really like parties, and usually skip them, but I'm going to go tonight. Because Della said I should.

We're sitting in the library right now, finishing an essay for Charms. I love the library because it's always quiet, and it's so big you can get lost. You never have to worry about being found if you're hiding. And the smell. Ink, and paper. Now, I associate it with Della's smell too. That same smell that wafted off the Amortentia. Vanilla, laundry detergent, sage, rain, old books, canned fruit and lavender.

I wonder what I smell like. And what she smelled. I ask, "Stupid question. What do I smell like?"

She laughs, and looks up from her essay. "Lemme check," she says, and sniffs me. "Cigarettes, and alcohol. And..." She trails off.

"What?"

"Nothing. You smell like cologne too. What do you wear?" She asks, leaning back.

"Whatever Theo buys. I steal his extra bottles when he isn't looking," I say. 

"What do I smell like?" She says.

I don't have to smell her now to remember. "Vanilla. And clean laundry. And sage, and lavender. And rain, and books and fruit."

"Weird," she says, turning back to her essay. 

Weird, indeed. Weird that it is her smell. Only her smell.