Severus stood a few paces before her. His eyes were on the ruined cauldron.
"Tell me," his voice shook, and tears formed in his eyes, "why do you wear flowers in your hair?"
He kept looking to his cauldron.
"I don't understand."
"How does such a sim...
Listening to "Once Upon a December" by A.Krishna alone in a forest numbed the lively morning wisps against her cheeks. Instead of fluttering leaves, the twinkling green foliage illusioned a jellyfish's sway. As if under the auditory spell of ethereal, hazy echoes. As if the forest held a nonchalant lounge before the wrecking storm.
Niamh hiked down the trail briskly towards work again, lost in these thoughts.
Imagine the Forbidden Forest, she thought.
Riding invisible flying horses with Luna Lovegood, listening to her soft angelic voice defend the Thestrals as misunderstood, gentle creatures without a credit to their keen intelligence.
If Niamh studied witchcraft, she already knew the sorting hat would war with 'Hmm, I sense bland wit, dormant cleverness, ohh . . . but great creativity. Enough imagination to face academics without natural talent . . . nothing fits better than RAVENCLAW!!!'
And with that kind of imagination, she'd befriend none other than Luna.
Luna believed in Nargles. Niamh believed in her own otherworldly planes of existence.
For a Catholic, she believed and practiced the art of manifestation. The debate continues, however, on its merit: believers swear their lives changed for the better. Others abandoned Christianity completely for the New Age. While some testify manifestation proved the devil's rebellion against God.
For attending church a scant once per season, and inexperienced in the use of manifestation, Niamh refrained from conclusions.
Choices sifted down to the basic good and evil. According to manifestation, one can bring happiness, abundance, and inner serenity. Even astral projection . . . to temporarily walk the physical world in spirit form. A transcendence yearned for, but not yet reached . . .
Anyways, blurting out "I just manifested that I needn't unwrap a new penny roll and count the leftover coins in the till! Nobody paid in cash for the last hour of my shift!" would likely bewilder people more than Luna's belief in Nargles.
Niamh still had much to learn on manifestation, anyway.
Or the time when five-year-old Niamh floated in land-clouds (fog) Mary Poppins-style by daybreak . . . then steered down to the ground and darted indoors recalling her flight.
"That was just a dream, honey," her mother had affirmed.
"No, I just DID IT! Look---the cloudseats are still floating!"
To this day, thirteen years later, eighteen-year-old Niamh Lexborough still remembered the cold, weightless cushion beneath her, the chilly mist feathering her hair. It had to be a dream. Had to be. Yet she still internally denied it.
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