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...
Despite the 6-feet-apart rule, Niamh leaned on her register towards the customer shielded with not only the store's plastic shield, but the tightly muffling fabric of a mask the shopper wore.
"Pardon?"
The lady gestured towards the paper bags in the corner, then pinched her mask. "Oh and if you could bag the raw meat in plastic, that'd be great."
Niamh smiled, but remembered to squint her eyes above her mask. While bagging, she appreciated the customer's initiative. Exchanging any communication, even the basic checkout script proved difficult under the new pandemic laws. Additionally, studies claim COVID-19 benefits introverts. And in limited respects, at least for Niamh, it does. With masks, her awkward smile (in my opinion) or angry lip-curling remained hidden.
The printer spit out the receipt and Niamh tossed it in the trash, for she recognized the local who always declined the slip. "Have a good one!"
"You too."
Clank. Clunk. Clunk. A round, elderly man in a grey and brown blazer plopped seven large cans of beets and then four cat litter cartons. His wife, Niamh assumed, a tall woman with her white hair pulled back into a frizzy braid and a long floral maxi dress, fiddled in her voluminous purse in the cart.
"Ya looked bored so we came to the rescue." The man then sucked in a breath, then bent out of sight. A moment later, he heaved a whole fifty-pound bag of black sunflower bird seeds onto the belt. Niamh kept her features domesticated.
Internally: screaming.
She hated $300+ orders; they wore out her arm, and not to mention dragging those unwieldy products to the other side.
"I hope we don't exhaust you too much," he said, as if detecting her dread as she continued to ring up items, "we only shop once a month."
Niamh couldn't help but appreciate the empathy. "No worries."
As she continued, the woman pushed her card into the machine awaiting to pay when ready. "You know, we really appreciate you working during these times. Make sure to make time for those parties though, okay?"
Niamh blushed as she handed the woman the receipt, slipping a timid chuckle. "I will, thanks."
As they left, Niamh didn't mind the chatty couple. What she did mind was herself: how to respond---Niamh never knew of anything witty to send back, at least in the moment. And the nervous fallback-laugh grew old.
Then parties echoed in her mind again. Oh, how the world assumed she drank with friends, flirted, danced to loud music on occasion. And that was not an extraordinary speculation---an 18-year old girl with a boyfriend living the teenage dream. The idea appealed. But it wasn't for Niamh.
Oh, how I wish it true. A boyfriend. Dancing to loud music beyond the comforting walls.
But self-acceptance: that's a solitary journey.
Loving things she cannot have. Loving experiences barricaded by pages.
Loving the sensation of a non-existent kiss from curled lips.
I cannot change my orientation, she reminded herself. I cannot shake the suspicion that simultaneously, I am all these things.
I am.
I am.
Much like that euphoric feeling in that odd goat-dream.
"Hello. Hello, are you open?"
Niamh flipped her eyes from the counter to the young blond-haired woman straining a basket full of flavored waters.
"Oh. Yeah, sorry I must've spaced out again," she said quickly, then followed with a mock laugh at herself. The bottles rolled through the scanner. Silence filled the atmosphere as the customer gripped the empty basket tightly. "Oh, here, let me take that, thanks."
The last bottle landed on the other side. "What kind of bag?"
"Plastic," the woman spoke crisply, "and make them light please."
As soon as Niamh finished, the customer scooped the bags and made a swift exit without a word.
Potential Karen. Ugh.
Settling beneath the covers that night, embarrassment lasted through her mind. Again, she worked tomorrow--9AM, it's past midnight, after two heartbreaking fanfictions on a Snape romance. Every time they ended in tragedy, she had to read one with a happy ending to "heal" herself. Otherwise, despair stunted her mental complex.
All for the love of a fictional character.
But that's the vicious cycle: wake up from self-induced insomnia, zone into the cosmos by day, and fight the rest on five sleeping hours.
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"Detention, Miss Lovegood."
The unicorn-haired girl froze on the ladder; her knuckles tightening a golden vial. From the corridor, the distant clock chimed 1AM from the Astronomy Tower.
His swishing robes behind warned Luna to pocket the potion deep.
"Well? Have you any foolish excuses?" Snape hissed.
Luna's eyes wandered about the room, and she grinned. "It's--"
Snape channeled his fury onto the fleeting image. --Accio pot--
As the potion flew towards Snape, an ombre blur of grey and white snatched the bottle midair. With a triumphant hoot, the owl dived out the door.
The door slammed. The next thing Luna knew was Snape prying her arms away from the ladder. Silently, he held her hostage as he traced vials and ingredients along his shelving.
". . . Felix Felicis, Miss Lovegood? Dare. I. Ask. Potter--"
Again, her nonchalant grin crept on her face. The potions master awaited, unwavering.
Her chromite eyes faced his piercing stare. "Why no. It's for the plot."
As if by expectation, Luna snaked her arm from his loosened grip, until they pinched her robe's sleeve.
