The Art of Dancing in the Rain (r.a.black)

Preface.

September Fifteenth

Mum—

Headmaster Dumbledore said it would be good to write to you, but after everything— I don't know. What am I supposed to say? It's not like you are going to listen, and I stopped really talking to everyone ages ago. So what the hell is writing a letter to you going to help?

But Dumbledore wants me to speak honestly, to let my feelings out. And bloody hell, writing a letter is definitely better than doing one of those stupid art projects where Professor Sprout has me paint my feelings. Can you imagine that? Last time, I painted a tree with a sun coming up over the top of it, because I knew she would eat that mess up. Sprout told me it meant I was growing.

Growing!

I don't believe I'm doing much growing. Dionysus has been playing quidditch, excelling in his classes. But what's the point? Every student in this place has a ticking time clock hanging around their neck. Dumbledore says my depression makes me say those things, but like I told him— I'm not depressed. I've just got my eyes wide open. Whenever I say that he mm-hmms it away and tells me not to waste his time.

When he first came around, I got sharp with him. Told him not to bother me. Thought I'd really told him what's what too. Dionysus and those Gryffindor boys lost their minds when that happened, laughing like I'd stood up and told a joke.

But sure enough, the next day, here comes the Headmaster stomping down the Great Hall with that long white beard. Loud as hell. Sat down right in front of me at the Ravenclaw table and started talking like I'd never said a sideways word to him. Dionysus says once he's got an eye on you, you're through. And I guess that's why I'm writing this bullshit letter, right?

I swear, Mum. Sometimes it's feels like the walls are closing in on me. I can't say I wish you were here, but maybe you know what I mean.

Circe