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[> [> [> [> sometimes it feels like i'm dreaming when i'm really awake.. -- ginny weasley, 19:42:41 03/28/02 Thu

Hazel eyes devoid of emotion scrutinize the gathered congregation in a contemplating hush, no 'illustration' flitting across her ashen facade. A placid sigh makes it way through burgundy tinged lips as she turns to consider her own classmates, not able to encourage her lips to alter into a smile no matter how hard she tries. They just wouldn't unmold themselves from the gloomy frown that they seemed to be casted into. Such unhappiness and morose judgment of the youth is a bizarre change from her once happy-go-lucky outlook and it almost upsets her. As she has so many times before in Hogwarts, the girl's attention drifts away from any formalities and into the past. The past, when everybody was packed with blameless glee, so untroubled about the future. What came in the future was the death of one of their own, the massacre of so many people that it made the adolescent girl's belly rock to one side and then the other, generating queasiness. But most of all, it originated her hurt. Pain so immense that she wasn't sure what it felt like not to feel the steady throbbing and listen to the eternal howls of her devastated heart. Her emotions, already so disordered because of the altering in her treasonous body, even more so guide her to determine that she possesses no reason, no place in life. It was like she was blissful one moment and ready to detonate the next…that is, until the unrestrained grief. Mentally, she has begun to name this time of mourning and sadness as 'the dark days', days when she could see no luminosity even when she stared unswervingly at the sun, days when she felt that she had achieved little or nothing when day descended into the night. When the mumbling of the students expanded and an animated other entered the ritual belatedly, she forces herself to abandon her 'asylum' of anguish, her eyes, once not really seeing what she gazed upon, now perch upon the outline of a dark brown tressed male that brings back callous recollections of Fred and George in the past. Tears sting pitilessly at the back of her eyeballs and she lowers her eyes as though she feels a current of panic, but it is actually to prevent others from perceiving the suddenly aching impression all around her. Self-discipline rapidly takes over, chasing away the pain temporarily so she may get an improved look at the masculine and how the rest of humanity responds. At any other circumstance, the female would have unquestionably laughed in shameless delight and approached him if only to learn his name, but everything is different when the sun declines to sparkle.

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