Choice's Curse {d.m.}

Dueling and Dread

The remaining weeks before break passed with relative normality; Harry and I were...still whatever we were, Ron and Hermione were happy as could be, classes and homework were growing harder by the day, but things were good. Cho and I were on amicable terms now, but between school and Harry, I hadn't seen her much, and I really only saw Cedric at practice, as he was a year older and we had no classes together. Cold air constantly breezed through the cracks in the stone of the castle, and the dungeon was a miserable place to be now, for more reason than one. The class itself was all well and fine, but Malfoy had gone back to taunting me with relentless verbal attacks, which surprised me. I would've assumed that some of his fire would've been taken away by nearly dying, but it seemed to only spur his insults, making what had previously been a rather enjoyable class incredibly difficult.

Transfiguration was a struggle, as well. Ron and I had fallen far behind because of our tendency to joke around, so McGonagall had split us up, and I now sat by another Slytherin who oddly always smelled strongly of brussel sprouts, and had a habit of spitting as he spoke, which meant I was constantly finding wet spots on my desk and robes that made me gag. I had become rather adept at that class though, managing to actually elicit praise from McGonagall on more than one occasion, which I bragged about endlessly to my friends.

The rest of my classes continued without anything of note; Hagrid's was always pleasant, if cold and a little odd at times, Snape's was incredibly demanding, papers being assigned every other class, and the topics we covered were convoluted and confusing. Herbology and Charms were nice, if slightly dull at times. The air was continuously biting at our noses and cheeks anytime we went outside, and the grass crunched with a permanent frost underfoot. There had been one more Quidditch match, between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, with Hufflepuff winning by a surprisingly large margin, which put Harry and Ron in a sour mood for a week straight. Hermione and I shared countless exasperated looks during that week every time the two of them whined about the unfairness of a certain call, or conspired that they were sure Hufflepuff had somehow cheated, to which I had responded that they were being sore losers and needed to put on their big boy robes and grow up a little. The comment was made in good fun, but I had apologized to Harry later, wanting to make sure he knew I was only joking.

His response was a wonderfully passionate kiss, and a tight hug as he responded that he knew, and that I was sweet for worrying. Harry and I had grown even closer over the past weeks, too, though I still hadn't confided in him about the origin of my scar, and he hadn't brought it up again after Slughorn's party.

I was glad of that, as even though the scar had begun to fade to a faint pink, I still felt the flash of pain everytime I looked at it or bumped into something that hit my arm. His eyes lingered on the line more often than I wished they would, and I knew he thought I couldn't see every time he looked at it, but I could, and it never failed to incite a sinking feeling in my stomach. It was so... unfair , as childish as it sounds, that I had to wear this permanent reminder on my body that my parents care less about me than everything else in their lives. I had learned to live with it over and over again during the years though, and I knew that eventually I would either be able to push it out of my mind, or push it down inside of me so deep that it would never come back up.

What a healthy way to deal with things, right?

Come the end of November, the Great Hall as well as most of the rest of the castle had been decorated with a breathtakingly festive shine; there were Christmas trees lining the Great Hall, wreaths and vines of holly leaves were strung on doors and walls and through the railings of the moving staircases, and the first snow had fallen, covering the grounds in a great white blanket of sparkling ice. Harry and I had had an impromptu snowball fight one weekend, started by him when he had kicked snow at me playfully while we were walking. By the end of it, our hands were numb, and the cold air burned our tired lungs, but the smiles Harry sent my way the rest of the day were well worth it.