'And he's the best fuck that ever walked. He's beautiful - rich, in money and everything else; he's a rockstar to boot, trapped in the body of a fighter. And how he fought; at a state of turmoil with himself - somewhere inside his soul that only she...
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'I am buried up to my neck in Contradictionary lies I take pride as the king of illiterature I'm very ape and very nice
If you ever need anything, please don't Hesitate to ask someone else first I'm too busy acting like I'm not naive I've seen it all, I was here first
What's better to die or lie? She probably has a new boyfriend It's a lie, that's what I tell my friend, I never blame, I never mind'
The beginnings of snowflakes in November served as a sentimental prelude for the winter to come. Hera loved this time of year and found writing poetry very cathartic, falling in love with the cold and berry-reds under glossy water, sparkling over a sheet of morning frost. But she also missed the dead brown-birds and dirty yellow sweaters of the boy she loved in the summer of her youth.
She shivered, stirring in black night and stars, eating the cooled lemon custard and crust on her cold bathroom windowsill. Hera felt her grief was pronounced in these months and would ask herself what Cedric had done to her — she couldn't even eat a lemon meringue pie without resenting him.
People always said grief was personal, but Hera wished it could be anything but — grief had cost Hera her sense of personhood. She wanted so obviously, so desperately to be loved and to be capable of being loved. Hera wasn't naive; that ship had sailed long before she'd had a chance at girlhood; she knew what she liked and disliked, but she dreaded if anyone was to ask her who she was.
How limiting it must be for a young woman to think the rest of her life would be spent settling; that the closest thing to a love letter she deserved was a book filled with suicidal footnotes... She'd been so consumed by it all that as the new month began, even the rush of howling winds and driving rain could not distract.
The morning of the match dawned bleary and frozen — the skies and ceiling in the Great Hall had become a pale, pearly grey, matching the snowcapped mountains surrounding the grounds.
Hera had given up commentating this year — she had a feeling her jokes wouldn't be as quickly accepted as Lee's, and she didn't want to place herself in a position where so many people would be listening to her. It all felt much too constraining. Instead, she sat beside Lee, preparing herself for his inevitable swearing and how she'd defend it to McGonagall.
