indignation | harry potter

2 | 7

M O R A E A

Moraea groaned in exasperation upon entering her dorm room.

She slammed the door shut behind her and let her head rest on its wooden surface until she got her breathing steadied—shallow breaths were exhaled in quick bursts. It reminded her of the staccato she had been trying to pull off last time she practiced the piano.

While this was fairly embarrassing for her, she was able to hold off her emotions thus far. This whole ordeal was definitely taking a nag at her, even she did not allow it to be obvious.

At last, she managed to regain herself as her breathing progressively came to be more quiet. That weird feeling was still there, however—Moraea could tell something was wrong.

She stood motionless, far too unnerved to move.

An exceptionally loud ticking noise made its way into her ears. She sensed it was coming from somewhere to the left, behind her. It could only belong to one of the old clocks she often spotted to be laying around—beautiful with their complex engravings, but considered way too loud thanks to the constant ticking.

She tuned out that sound as another, significantly more unsettling one made itself known.

In her full life, Moraea Riddle had never turned around faster than she did now.

"Merlin! What is it with you?"

Of course it was the one person Moraea was sure wouldn't be here. Daphne Greengrass' voice bore no venom, nor was it mocking. If one were to witness this—they would hardly be thinking there was more to this relation than that of mere acquaintances. They weren't enemies, but they weren't friends either. At least not anymore.

It was sad, really, but Moraea had learned to accept it. That's how life was—anyone could leave at any time. What matters is that your will to continue remains.

And Moraea would never lose that will. Not until she sees his dead body with her very eyes.

Daphne Greengrass was comfortably seated on her bed, her knees up to her chest and a piece of parchment placed firmly on the cover of a voluminous book, giving it a hard surface to write on. Feather in hand, it took no effort to conclude Daphne had been in the middle of some sort of letter, perhaps.

Moraea averted her eyes back to her former friend, not concerned with anything she might have been writing.

She was tired. She was tired of keeping herself emotionless, she was tired of pretending. Most of all, she was tired of this rigid tension that made itself very present every time she entered her shared dorm.

So, for once, she chose not to hide. "Harry Potter is a twat."

To Daphne's surprise—and to her own—Daphne set the parchment down, and offered a light laugh. "That, we can agree on." She said. After what seemed like a moment of doubt, the blonde girl continued. "What did he do this time?"

Relieved the tension was down at least by a little bit, Moraea jumped on her bed with an exaggerated sigh. Her eyes focused on the boring ceiling. "I'm doing everything in my power to help him for the sake of wizardkind, and all he does in response is test my patience." She looked over to the other bed, where her dorm-mate was sitting. "He is insufferable."

"Average Gryffindor, am I right?" Daphne smiled vaguely. "Wants all the glory for himself." She winced.

Moraea opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her friend went back to her work on the parchment, just barely hovering her quill above it.

The tug Moraea felt over her heart told her it was time to set things right.

"I'm sorry, okay?" She said quietly. "About everything. You really did mean a lot to me—you still do. I wasn't entirely honest with you because I didn't want to bring you into the mess that was my life. It had nothing to do with... glory. You deserve to enjoy your years here." It took a great deal of will for Moraea not to tear her eyes away from Daphne. Why did apologizing feel so shameful, when it is usually just the opposite?