The Choices We Make ∆ Harry Potter Sister

Chapter 3.11

"You what?!" exclaimed the blonde boy much too dramatical than necessary.

Standing in front of the mirror in the boys' dormitory, the young Potter loosened the tie of her dark coffee brown hair with little to no care of the boys behind her. Studying the reflection on the mirror, she couldn't help but ponder what her mother would look like today, if she were alive. It wasn't very rare for her to hear how she looked like the late Lily Potter, except for her dark hair, which she inherit from her father. Would her mum smile back at her through the mirror and hug her from behind? Would she gently run her delicate fingers through her hair, untangling her knotted hair? Would she teach her how to put a little make up and doll up for the dance? Would she pick a dress for her that brings out her eyes? A dress. Damnit. Where on earth would she find a dress? In all thirteen years of her life, never had she ever bought, nor wear, a bloody dress (unless Dudley's ungodly oversized t-shirt counts). Sure, she had the money to buy one, but she didn't even know a thing about picking up a dress. There was no asking Harry about it - he's a hopeless case. Asking for Granger's help is of course a choice, but she could already comprehend the intensive analysis the Gryffindor would give her. She longed to have a mother by her side, though she knew that her brother already tried his best to fill that void in her heart, but at times, it just wasn't enough. Noticing the traitorous tear that was already at bay, the young Potter dusted the non-existent dust on her robes and said over her shoulder, "And why should this concern you, Draco?"

Startled that she actually acknowledged his opinion, the blonde boy felt the words vaporising from the tip of his tongue. True, it was his fault that she was acting hostile towards him, but he could never decipher why she hadn't get over it. It had been months, yet she still couldn't forgive him, even though she did the rest of the boys. Though he wouldn't admit it, his heart ached from not being close to her, from not being able to make her laugh, from being the reason behind the cold and knife like stare she put on her face. But being a Malfoy, he had to much pride bin his chest to admit the simple state he was in, he missed her. Raising to his feet, he stuttered, "Because- because-"

"Because the last time I check, you don't really care about me or what's important to me."

It was like a jab in his heart. He never knew what heartbreak felt like, but then and there he knew he didn't like it. If only Ellie realised that he truly cared about her, in his own way. Holding his head high, the blonde boy turned around and made for the door. "Forget it. You're impossible."

Not a sound was heard in the dormitory after the soft slam of the door that marked the Malfoy boy's exit, and not a sound was made for the next thirty seconds. It was if Ellie had charmed the room and time ticked slower. Those thirty seconds didn't felt like thirty seconds, but it felt like ages. And it was not because if the silence, because they could feel their blink became slower, the ticking of the clock lost its tock. It was as if Ellie's heart shattered with that soft slamming of the door, and they were all invited to the sorrow party she was holding. A soft hum could be heard from afar, yet it was clear as day in their ears. A hum that was like a phoenix's cry, soft and beautiful, yet held so much power that it could break a heart with just a touch of its melody. That hum, as it appears, proofed that a glass is no match to that of a heart as the standing mirror Ellie just saw her reflection on shattered into a million pieces, casting kaleidoscope reflections upon the room, breaking the enchantment altogether. They could feel their eyes blinking with the harmony of their heartbeat again, and the tick of the clock regaining its tock.

It didn't take another second for the Slytherin Quidditch Captain to get onto his feet and help the young Potter to escape the mess of shattered glass. As she sat on the bed along with the other three boys, Adrian picked the glass pieces from her hair as delicately as he could, as if he was picking the thorns from a rose's stem.