━ four ; o how the mighty hath fallen

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—— ・:*:・゚★ ・:*:・゚★ ——𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔣𝔬𝔲𝔯

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—— :*:・゚★ :*:・゚★ ——
𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔣𝔬𝔲𝔯

❝ o how the mighty hath fallen !
—— :*:・゚★ :*:・゚★ ——

           ALASKA SAT WAITING upon a stool in the three broomsticks, every now and then her head would tilt upwards when the door opened, patiently expecting her solitude to be shattered by Sirius' boisterous presence. She checked her watch at least every five minutes, the hands forever turning, time persisting, despite everything coming to an humiliating standstill for Alaska as she cynically thought: he isn't coming, he isn't coming, he's stood you up, her mind chanted repeatedly, the pessimistic prayers thundering effortlessly through her mind like the morsels of a storm, a midsummer's nightmare embedding its prickly thorns into her brain like the brittle words of a heartbroken sonnet.

      She glanced down in second doubt, she wondered if her skinny jeans accentuated the chubbiness of her thighs she just couldn't seem to rid of. Did the baggy, colourful, eccentrically striped sweater hanging from her frame make her look like she was being swallowed up whole by a rainbow? Was her hair too messy, too greasy from being to exhausted the night before to shower, and too rushed that morning? Should she have applied make up to her face to disguise the shadows that littered the skin beneath her eyes, to conceal the shimmer of blistering spots that had scattered themselves over her forehead, chin and nose, to make her chapped lips look more glossy? Her mind was swarming with self conscious worries, the cynicism streaming in rushing, crystalline currents, weaving in and out of her thoughts.

      Alaska's half-gnawed down nails clicked against the tattered, ruined edge of the bar and dig around in her pocket until she eventually retrieved her pack of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum. She placed one of the sticks of gum into her mouth, instantly chewing down on the berry-flavoured sweet, wracked with nerves, consumed with trepidation. The explosion of taste didn't seem to find the capability to soothe her qualms or anxiety. Her feet didn't quite reach the floor from where towered upon a stool, but one of them was hanging lower than the other, tapping rhythmically along one of the wooden bars that supported the bottom of the stool, roughly a millisecond off beat from the pattern she was creating with her nails along the mahogany counter.

      "Can I get you anything, darlin'?" a bartender asked her.

      Alaska's eyes fleeted toward the young woman, no more above than twenty one, for what the Maine girl was sure of. She had a mane of unkempt, unruly, enviable, dirty blonde hair, and warm, honeysuckle eyes that Alaska recognised faintly. The bartender was Madam Rosmerta, a personal favourite of every boy who ever visited The Three Broomsticks.

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