Running Out of Time

The Beginning

About, what, 16 or so years ago, I was born. Of course, this is a very rough estimate since I don't actually know what day it is, but I digress.

I like to think I was a beautiful child. A strange, and probably magical combination of dark brown hair and big, deep blue eyes. The shade of which was only ever seen in our bloodline. The Greengrass bloodline, that is. And even then it only ever popped up every few decades or so. It was these eyes that set me apart. These eyes that marked my end.

Of course, no one knew it at the time. No one but my father, and I think he pitied me for it. He spoiled me rotten and Daphne was always bitter about it. I couldn't understand why, when she was obviously Mother's undisputed favorite.

I grew up differently from Daphne. A curious and active mind, always asking why. Why was the grass green and the sky blue? Why was ballet considered classy while jazz was not? Why did muggle music sound better than wizarding music if we were superior? Why use owls to send messages when it'd be faster by Floo?

Father would smuggle me many books, much to Mother's displeasure. As a wealthy man, he could certainly afford it, and he would teach me all about numbers and the muggle thing called science whenever he could sneak me out of lessons.

Mother obviously took notice. And soon she was the one asking why? Why spend more time with Astoria than Daphne? Why would he buy me books? Why teach me math and science? Why answer all my why's but not get Daphne that gorgeous dress she was ogling?

Soon after this conversation I found my life drastically changed. At age 9 Mother became a little colder. Less generous in giving me things like jewelry and dresses, I could have them once Daphne grew out of them. There was no more sneaking out of etiquette and dance classes. No more muggle science. No more why's.

It soon became evident that me and Daphne were drastically different. She could dance like a leaf in the wind, embroider like a professional and walk with a whole tea tray on her head without spilling a drop. I was, in Mother's words, a disaster. My posture was horrible after curling over my books. Ballet for me was out of the question, I tired too easily and couldn't stay on my toes long enough. Ballroom dancing was fine, so long as we didn't dance too long, and my partner was a good lead. My embroidery would always end up snarled and knotted or crooked and awkward. Walking with a book on my head was near impossible, forget a tea tray. I didn't like dresses or squeal over shoes, and when Daphne left for school I was more envious than anything.

The two years she went to school without me were the worst of my life. At the time, anyway. Without Daphne to coo over Mother was more set on whipping me into shape. I learned how to stitch so close together and perfectly it made my fingers ache. I learned to walk with a singular cup of tea on my head without shattering the china on the floor. I could differentiate between a mutton and salad fork, and learned two other languages. But in dancing I remained horrible. No matter what they did, my stamina never improved.

I should have seen it as a sign that something was wrong with me. I should have seen how no matter how much I ate I was always stick thin. Recognized it as wrong that I couldn't dance for more than ten minutes without going light headed. But I was young and stupid. I didn't think there was anything wrong. Daphne had to be the minority with her grace and strength. With her perfection. It was only once I got to school that I began realizing that I was wrong. I was different. I was the outlier. And it was all. My. Fault.