COLD AS ICE , george weasley ¹

V. Triwizard Things

Love, your baby sister (who would very much like for the louboutins) Crystal.

    Given that her hand is now cramping and her stomach's longing for pop tarts, the brunette stuffs her quill into her bag and rolls the second letter up.

Things have felt a bit heavy on her chest since talking to Hermione the other day, Crystal will admit. She can't seem to quit pondering over the words she had spewed out to Hermione, the words Hermione had spewed out at her. That pungent look on her face as she said it, Mcgonagall will never like you!

But she's Crystal fucking Kovalevsky for Merlin's sake! Who even cares? Why does she? Why can't this be like the millions and trillions of other times she's yelled at people mercilessly? She supposes, well, it is like the other times. The only thing that is different is this feeling dwelling deep down inside. It doesn't make sense, because she doesn't care about Granger, if she's honest. The girl is a menace! (And although a menace, she is a menace to be reckoned with . . .) There's nothing there for Crystal to care about even if she wanted to!

Her hair may be disastrous, and her face may be a tad pimply — but Granger has got one insufferable quality that Crystal can never buy, not even with all of the Kovalevsky riches: she's kind of, admittedly, smart.

Seriously though! Crystal doesn't care. She swears! She oaths! She'd rather listen to Neville Longbottom babble about plants for twenty minutes than leave you with the impression that she gives a shit about Granger.

Besides, Crystal has big plans for this week, Huge, ginormous, freakishly eventful, heaping plans that are going to stir the pot of this dreadfully boring school so much, she can't contain her excitement. Literally. She's skipping. Skipping. Crystal hasn't skipped since she was like, five.

As she makes her way down past the great hall, her shiny black louboutins produce a click clack against the the stone tiles, signalling to all inside that Slytherin's queen is opting out of dinner this evening, and heading straight for the library instead. She'd made the effort to curl her otherwise pin straight hair today, as well as worn her custom tailored, hand stitched, robes — all silky and perfect just how she's likes them to be. For once in her incredibly frustrating life, her eyeliner looks good today as well. It's a blessing! Crystal walks down the corridor like she knows she's stunning, like she knows she has the attention of anyone and everyone she passes; and she totally does.

If Draco wasn't being such an arsehat, perhaps it would be a good day.

The library emits an eerie silence when she throws open the carven oak doors to step inside. The light is sparse, her eyes have to squint to make out the shadows of a few wandering losers in between the shelves as they read whatever it is they find interesting. (Is any book interesting?) In Crystal's perception of the world, no, not a single one. Reading is something she saves her energy to do only when a professor forces her. Any person who considers the act of sitting down and flipping through papers for hours on end, fun, is clinically insane, no question about it.

Draco likes reading, it makes sense.

Crystal's had enough with the boy. She's done trying to pretend she doesn't want to push him off the bridge pathway when he's not paying attention. She's at the point where she's tempted to rip a picture of him out of her old scrapbook and throw darts at it for the sincere pleasure.