𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 |𝐃.𝐌

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄 | 𝐥 𝐢 𝐛 𝐫 𝐚 𝐫 𝐲

"𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈'𝐦 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞,
𝐈𝐭'𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬, 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐰𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬"
-'fearless' by Taylor Swift

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HEMERA

After what seems like one of the most exhausting weeks I had to drag my body and sanity through, I couldn’t be more thankful to know that I eventually made it to Friday in one piece. A little sleep deprived and perhaps, with my dark circles almost at level with my mouth, but still breathing.

My body is so used to clawing at the sliver of relaxation I was granted during my free periods and the breaks that I can’t help but feel like I spent an entire week trapped in a loophole. With no way out but alongside an irritating voice telling me that I was late for another lecture to keep me company.

All the enervation trapped within the walls of my skull and every fiber of myself threatens to have my mind exploding; if it isn’t liquid enough to gush out of my ears, taking all the supposedly useful information the professors had pitifully attempted to weave into my veil of knowledge, in its dismiss.

Still, the pressure I feel squashing in my temples from the inside is enough to make me want to call it a day and do nothing but sleep the rest of my afternoon away. Or the entire weekend for that matter. Lie down on one of the couches in the common room and stare at the crackling fire until my body is completely numb and unmoving, overtaken by my need to regain my wasted energy.

The idea of my leisure will remain a faint, opulent imagination for a few more hours, a mental image I shall not give myself the pleasure of materializing just yet. I know better than to beset my mind with things as far out of my reach as my ability to complete my potions assignment on time without breaking a sweat.

I wouldn’t describe myself as the type to be driven by grades and praise to the extent of completely sacrificing my needs to get them, but I know better than to walk into Snape’s class on Monday empty-handed when I had an entire weekend to work on my project. Going easy on his students is something he’s proved himself severely incapable of doing. I might have two days left but I know that the best thing I can do is remove the weight of it from my shoulders.

Three hours of devotion to writing about stupid Polyjuice and wolfsbane potions. I can do that.

Perhaps it’s the fact that the corridors are empty and dead silent as I walk through them that makes me curse my heightened sense of selfishness and stubborn mannerism that held me back from asking Draco for help. Had I made the first move to talk to him after our argument, I’m damn sure I wouldn’t doubt every step I take that draws me closer to the library at the end of the hallway.

Knowing myself means being aware of my inefficiency to be the first to crack the ice after a fight. Draco and I don’t argue often— unless it’s about whether slices of pineapple on pizza are a crime against humanity or not— but when we do, I never expect them to last long. Usually, it’s only a matter of hours and nothing more. We fight. He leaves the room. I start counting to ten and wait for him to come back. He shoves his lighthouse-of-Alexandria-sized pride aside and apologizes first. I admit that he wasn’t the only one in the wrong and just like that, we pretend that nothing beyond the ordinary happened in the afternoon.

Now that we’ve spent the last four days treating each other’s presence like it holds the significance of a loose thread on the sleeve of our sweatshirts, I can’t help but wonder how far he’s willing to take it or if he sees it fit to discover how long it’ll take for me to reach out first. Although his ignorance bothers me enough to make me want to slap him in hopes of getting a reaction out of him, I refuse to let it show.