THEO
~
I NEVER THOUGHT IT would be this way; that I would ever feel so much hate towards anyone, let alone so many people. My father was always a sore subject, sure. But, I didn't always want him to want me, not so much anyways. For a little while when I was younger, I thought having a mother was more than enough. Before she got so bitter and I got so broken.
She used to paint. My mom. Not often, but every once in awhile, on a rainy Sunday when there was nothing to do, she would take out her brushes and big canvases, and she would paint for hours and hours. I would sometimes join her, usually ending up with paint on my face and in my hair. But most of the time, I just liked to watch her.
One time, she painted me. Her hair, for once down and falling down her back, was golden under the yellow lights, so pretty. I remember wondering why my hair couldn't be pretty like that. Instead, it was often a curly mane that couldn't be tamed.
For that painting, she had braided my at-the-time long hair back and I wore a puffy purple dress. Back then, it felt more like dress-up than a chore. I felt more like a princess than a doll.
But, for some reason, that all changed a bit after my eighth birthday.
I didn't know why, but my mother became colder and harsher after that. Granted, she had never had the most patience, but after that she had none. Everything that I did was wrong. And she stopped painting.
I found a letter the next summer, as I was helping unpack her office in our newest house. A letter fell from a dusty book I dropped, wrinkled and torn a bit. It was from my father, dated a year before. He called my mother some bad things. Called me a mistake. I didn't have a chance to finish reading when the paper was snatched from my hands.
That was the first time my mother slapped me.
After that, I realized my father had something to do with my mother's . . . changes. It soon got so very twisted and the truth probably blended with lies. But I never forgot how my mom used to paint. Or how after he wrote to her, she stopped.
__
I woke up not with a gasp or a shout that morning, but with a sniffle. Whatever cold-and-hangover-induced coma I had fallen into that night left me feeling weak and out of control. I hated it; especially since lately everything I did seemed to be the wrong move. I felt like a different person each day. Sometimes I hated everyone and other times all I could think of was how big of an ass I was being to people who . . . cared about me for some reason.
In all honesty, that morning, I wanted to cry.
It's been two weeks since Snape relayed the news from my father. I don't think I've slept well one night since. I mean, usually, it's hard to fall asleep when I haven't had practice or I drank a lot of pumpkin juice at dinner. But, this was different. Instead of random nightmares of tsunamis and elephants, my nights were filled with memories from when I was younger; things I hadn't thought about in years.
Like, I had this stuffed bear when I was younger. Really little, like five or six. It was missing an eye and had a tear on its stomach, but I took it with me everywhere. And then, mom decided I was too old for it or something and threw it out. And— and I remembered cutting my hand digging through the trash for it, but being unable to find it.
And while I could barely remember the bear— if it had a name, or when I got it —I felt completely and utterly gypped. It was my fricking bear.
But, instead of being allowed to stew in my sudden rush of anger, I was forced to get up early than my roommates. I had Prefect Duty in the Great Hall before Hogsmeade, some random assignment given my Dumbledore the day before.
I had showered and woken myself up before the sun rose, but I couldn't seem to find my gloves. A random blue shirt was already on and tucked into my jeans— cause it was fricking freezing and I hate skirts—and my boots were secured onto my feet over the thickest socks I owned. I even had my leather jacket on over a thin grey hoodie, along with a yellow-and-black hat that Cedric may have made me keep. My hair was too short to pull back, so I did my best to keep it controlled under the hat, memories of hair whipping me in my face coming to mind.
But, while the rest of me was totally ready to beat winter's ass, my hands were bare and in need of my fur-lined, leather gloves I had gotten last Christmas from Cedric. I was nearly late when I finally found the brown hand-warmers at the bottom of my trunk, under an old herbology textbook from Second year I somehow still had.
I half-ran to the Great Hall, flying inside just as Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak. Normally, I wouldn't have really cared, but after getting hammered and skipping a whole day of class, I decided to toe the line a bit.
"Uh, sorry, sir," I muttered, walking to stand next to Flint.
Diggory raised an eyebrow from where he stood diagonally from me in the semi-circle of students and the Headmaster. I shrugged, turning to look at Dumbledore as the old geezer began to explain why we had to get up at the butt crack of dawn.
"As you all know, the First Task is approaching very quickly. Now, Mr. Diggory and Miss Black—" I glowered, but stayed quiet. "—are exempted from this, but the rest of you are expected to help with the preparations."
Then why the hell did I have to get up?
"However, all of you will be required to take on extra responsibilities; such as keeping an eye out for the younger students today at Hogsmede . . . and patrolling after curfew a few nights a week for the rest of the year. I'm afraid Mr. Filch cannot do it all."
Oh.
"What about winter break?" One of the Ravenclaw Prefects, whose name I couldn't remember, questioned. "Surely you don't expect us to stay here?"
Dumbledore was silent for a moment, clearly sensing the overall distaste from us eight. I, however, was pleased. Usually, I was forced home for Winter Break by my mother. But, surely she couldn't fault her Prefect for a daughter if she was forced by the school to stay. I fought a smile as the Headmaster finally confirmed my hopes.
"I'm afraid you will be required to stay on the grounds during the Winter break. I apologize for any inconvenience, but we will need . . . "
I tuned out the rest of Dumbledore's speech, noting the crestfallen look on Cedric's face. I sighed, at a loss. I didn't know what to do. Until, I did.
"What if less than . . . five people from each house stay?" I questioned, interrupting whatever the old man was saying. "Surely the staff can watch over twenty students?"
Typically, less than that stayed for break. Or, at least, that's what I had heard. Hopefully, I was right. Even if it meant I had to go home.
Dumbledore stared at me for a moment, for some reason at a loss. I dared to raise an eyebrow. "I guess my cousin really is right about the school's incompetence. Maybe I'll write Lucius tonight about it. I'm sure the Ministry would get a kick out of you banning us from leaving—"
"Very well, Miss Black." The withered man sighed. "You may all return home for winter break, but you will be required to return . . . three days early to help with the arrival back."
I smirked, but that turned into a small smile as I saw Cedric's grin. Worth it.
__
It was many hours later that I was walking around Hogsmeade for the first approved time. Cedric had a date with Cho Chang I wouldn't dare interrupt, seeing as he'd been pining after her since Second year. Adrian and Flint weren't approved to go, and Cassius was with his little brother. They were shopping for Christmas gifts for their parents.
I was fine going by myself, until I got lost. Then, next to a bar called the Hog's Head, I finally accepted help from a certain redhead.
Fred Weasley and I had never had direct contact with each other when George was not around. I had heard on numerous occasions his twin brother claiming he would marry me and that Fred would be the flower girl, but other than that, we didn't really interact. That being said, he was my best offer so far.
"So . . . " The redhead started as we walked, cocking his head at me. "You fall in love with my brother yet?"
I choked on air, whipping my head towards the now-laughing teenager. "Wait to ease into shit, Weasley."
"Eh," Was his response, a smirk on his face. "It's pretty obvious you like him—"
"What makes you say that? The lack of a smile on my face?" I questioned, snorting.
"You're the one who said so. At the party. Granted, it was after one too many shots, and my dear brother did have to carry you to your friend, but . . . "
My face dropped and I stopped walking. Surely, he was joking. I still had my . . . gaps from the party, but I distinctly remember green-clad arms half-dragging me to my room. I stared at the less-annoying of the two Weasley twins, wondering if I had somehow mistaken him for his brother. This was a George thing to do; wait until a vulnerable moment, like when I was lost, and then make up some lie.
But, I knew that wasn't true just by looking at him. Only twice had I ever mistaken them for each other, both in First year when I barely paid attention to anyone. While the two were nearly identical, George's eyes held something . . . different. And he had this scar on his neck, from where a exploded glass nicked him. He had three freckles more on his left ear, and his cheeks got red more easily.
No, this was Fred. What I couldn't get was why he would say those things.
I started walking once more, noticing a familiar face inside the Post Office. Fred simply let me go, furthermore showing he was not his brother. I shook my head, nearly freezing as I noticed a small rodent scampering into a frozen bush. My face wrinkled in disgust, the ugly creature thoroughly grossing me out.
I hated rats.