Abigail's Riddle (HP fanfic)

8: Hogsmeade

                I stare at myself in the mirror for a long moment.  My eyes rake over myself in a way they never have before. I’ve never really minded my thick, blonde hair, but today it seems to beg me to change my mind.  Bits of it stick up out of their accord, and no matter how much I rub my hand against them it seems that they will not fix themselves.

                “Is there a spell that fixes hair?” I ask aloud to the other girls in the common room.

                “Probably, but I bet there’s a fifty percent chance you would set yourself on fire,” answers Joanna from across the room.

                “Right,” I say with sarcasm dripping off my voice.

                “Oh, shut it,” Joanna says.  "Even you can get nervous."

                I glare at her in a way that I taught myself years ago.  She averts her eyes and begins to tighten her tie.  I smirk.

                Nonetheless, I do not ask about the spell, or do anything much with my hair.  Augmenta wets the ends, so that perhaps they will curl in the way they do with less frizz.

                I see Joanna moving toward me out of the corner of my mind, but decide against acknowledging it.  She makes it quite impossible, however, when she appears behind me in the mirror, and reaches around me to drop something on the desk.

                “What’s this?”

                “Blush, you sap.  Put it on your face.  And this lipstick.”  She holds up a silvery tube.

                "I am not going to put that on."

             "Yes, you are.  My mom uses it, and it makes her look like a queen."

               I sigh reluctantly, and open the container.  Inside is a powder I have only ever seen in my aunt’s bedroom.  I tentatively touch the powder, and wince as it collects under my nail. 

                Joanna groans audibly.  “Put it on your bloody face.”

                Reluctantly, I let the makeup soil my finger, and wipe it off against my cheek.  I spread it around my cheeks until they look half as rosy as Joanna’s.  I glare at her, and then myself in the mirror.  Perhaps I look pretty, but it does not look like me.  Besides the fact, I am twelve.  Make up is for fourth years, not me.  

                She, on the other hand, squeals.  “What a dame!”

                “Oh, dry up.”

                Her face lets down noticeably, but not enough.  I am unfortunate enough to be stuck in the dorm with only her, everyone else has filtered out, and so she does not easily cease her behaviour.

                My wish is to stay here for just a moment longer, perhaps even wipe off some of the makeup, but my annoyance at Joanna easily overrules any other desire.  I stalk back to my bed, snatch up my scarf, and stride past her.  I ignore her calls, march out into the common room, and start down the stairs.

                The stairwells are particularly easy to navigate today, with only one moving beneath my feet.  Within five minutes, I am standing by the doors to the Great Hall.  I find myself picking at my lips which I had previously scrubbed so smooth.  It has been four minutes.

                My feet long to pace, but I make myself stay absurdly still.  I stare at a single step on the closest staircase, and blink only when absolutely necessary.  Students rush down the stairs.  First years slump down, upset that they are not allowed to leave.  Second and third years leap, and all the others only walk with a bounce in their step.

                Tom, on the other hand, strides.  As per usual, his step betrays nothing of his inner emotions.  This is something I admire about Tom, but can feel myself beginning to loathe.

                “Abigail,” he says quietly.  Over the sound of the students, I am surprised that it is so clear.

                “Tom,” I respond with a nod.

                A smile appears across his face, as genuinely as any grin ever does.  “I’m so very prepared to show you Hogsmeade.”

                “And I for you to show me.”

                His grin widens ever so slightly, but he turns on his heel with a slight beckoning gesture.  I follow without a second thought.

                My cheeks hurt from laughing, and my heart is lightened from the joy.  Leaves crunch under our feet.  The snapping starts and stops depending on how much we laugh, or how silent we fall.  Even if it is mostly snide remarks, witty comments, and jabs to my own personality, Tom has managed to take a good portion of air from my lungs in amusement.

                “I am quite surprised that someone has not yet written a novel on the history of Hogwarts,” Tom remarks, “It’s quite fascinating.  Of course, you would know about that.”

                “Well, in wizarding architecture books you can see the physical history of—”

                “No, no, I do not mean that.  I mean a novel with every last secret and refurbishment and headmaster and about all of the founders of the houses.  You can find it all in different books, but tracking them down takes weeks.  Imagine a book with everything.  It would take immense research as well, what with tracking the validity of the sources, and having to write down every last thing.  I don’t even know where I would begin.”

                “Salazar Slytherin,” I respond knowingly.

                “No, not quite.  Perhaps with the graduates of Hogwarts.  I, of course, would take the front page.”

                I roll my eyes at him.

“No, I mean it, Abigail.  I plan to be the most powerful wizard of all time.”

                “And I?”

                “The most powerful witch.”

                His words are so taught and sure that I find myself taking a sharp breath.  For a moment, we walk in silence.  Leaves crunch, owls hoot nearby, and laughter follows us down the path.  My mouth twitches in desire for another smile, but I stop myself.

                “What makes you say that?” I ask.  My breath hitches in my throat.  The answer seems to hold so much importance, yet I can’t explain why.

                “You’re brilliant, Abigail.  If I am a powerful wizard, than you are at least as powerful of a witch.”

                My cheeks flush, which I am sure looks prosperous given the blush that already resides on my face.  I have to hold back the spring that desired to jump into my step.  Simultaneously, the desire I have to curl up into a ball.

                “I mean it, you know.”

                Tom nudges my hand with his.  I do a sort of flexing motion, and our fingertips brush.

                “Yeah,” I mumble. 

                “Yeah.”

            He links his pinky with mine for only a moment, before returning his hand into its regular stony fist.

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