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

Chapter Two.

Professor Sprout told me this morning that I lost some supposed glimmer in my eye after my mother passed.

I nodded, and feigned like it hadn't bothered me. And maybe it wasn't the fact that she brought up my mother's death that had bothered me— maybe it was because she said that I was just like her.

Everyone had always said that. That I was the carbon copy of the woman. From my hair, to my eyes, to even my hobbies.

But they said it with a smile, like it was something to be proud of.

It wasn't.

Because, if I were just like mum, that meant that I loved to hard, broke too much, and would one day meet the same fate.

Don't get me wrong, my mother was a good woman. A great one even. But I don't think that anyone really understood. To be like my mother meant that I would give everything in me away, I would be able to spit thorns in the face of the people who hurt me (even if I loved them), and I would have her capacity to be cruel.

Being like my mother wasn't an accomplishment. I felt sick to my stomach.

I pretend that the Wiggentrees were the most interesting thing I've ever seen— I meet with Professor Sprout every Wednesday morning after breakfast to talk about my 'feelings'.

It had just been the two of us until this week. A girl in my brother's year and house— Marlene McKinnon— now shows up too. Apparently McGonagall forced her to come because of 'anger issues'.

I can tell she doesn't want to talk either; she'd rather be anywhere else. She's cool in my book. She sees through this plant therapy shit too.

"What happened this morning at breakfast?" Sprout asks McKinnon, and I can tell she's uncomfortable. She keeps looking at me, like she doesn't trust herself to speak in front of me. I don't blame her. I don't want to speak in front of her neither.

"Stupid Evan Rosier."

"Stupid? Why do you say that?"

"Thinks he's so high and mighty, just because of his blood status. Called me a mud-blood, you know? And somehow he got off Scot-free and I'm here for my anger problem," McKinnon grumbles.

Mentally, I'm applauding her. Everyone saw her little display where she poured plum juice down Rosier's trousers and called him some colorful words. I admire a girl who can defend herself.

"How does that make you feel?"

Marlene scoffs— of course Sprout asks that question, she always does. I learned to tell her what she wants to hear. McKinnon has yet to learn that lesson.

"How did that make me feel? Is that a joke?"

"No, it is not."

"Angry! Furious! Seething! Fuck Evan Rosier!" She is fairly screeching at this point. I can tell Sprout wasn't expecting the outburst, just based on her red face and widened eyes.

I want to laugh, but the way Marlene looks like she can murder a small village makes me refrain myself.

Sprout doesn't know what to say, and Marlene storms out, slamming the greenhouse door with her exit.

It's awkward now. And I wonder if I can let one of the more lethal plants kill me so that way I don't have to keep looking at Sprout's bulging eyes.

"Well, I guess that's enough for today," she tells me. And I couldn't agree more.

With a swiftness that seekers can only dream to possess, my books fly into my bag and I am walking back to the castle. Dionysus is waiting for me in the courtyard, like he always does, and like I always do— I pretend I don't see him.

He rolls his eyes and follows after me, calling my name a few times before I finally round on him, telling him to leave me alone.

He thinks I need to talk about my feelings too.

I wish everyone just let me bottle them up; trap them in a little wooden box, shut with master steel locks, never to be touched again. Dionysus doesn't agree.

"How was your meeting?" He's still following after me.

"Same as always."

"What did Sprout say?"

"Same as always."

Don't get me wrong, I love my brother. We were basically raised as twins, and from the first memory I have, it has always been him looking out for me. But sometimes I can do without the doting on.

"Circe," he sighs. He's finally had enough of my attitude. Rightfully so. "I'm just worried about you, you know?"

And there it is.

I hate people worrying about me. There's nothing to worry about. If anything, I should be the one worrying about all the students in this messed up school who thinks these will be the best years of their life— but I chose not to waste my energy.

"I don't understand why you're worried. I'm fine."

"Fine?" He asks, incredulously. But I choose to ignore his tone.

"Fine."

I say it with such a conviction that he sighs. He's given up. 47 seconds. New record!

"Okay," he says it, but doesn't believe it.

I don't care what he believes. I hide the truth from myself, and when it is forced upon me I either collapse or else I explode. I'm free to do so. But only if I can take it when I lose. And I can't take it. I always try to get out of feeling that grief; I fly into a rage, I accuse other people right and left—anything at all not to own those terrible feelings.

"My friends are gonna eat dinner by the lake later. You should join."

I know he does this in an attempt to force me to make friendships. Part of him believes that if I did, I wouldn't be so negative all the time. But I don't want anyone's pity. I could've killed Remus Lupin when he tried to sit with me in the library just because Dionysus told him to.

"I think I'll pass."

He knows this is what I would say, so he doesn't push the matter further. Plus, I would only start drama by going. Everyone knows I can't keep my mouth shut, nor my opinions to myself. Gryffindors seem to hate that type of thing.

"If you change your mind, you know where we'll be."

Yeah, that's likely. I'd sooner pitch myself into the fireplace of the common room then sit and listen to James Potter talk about quidditch for a whole hour.

"Whatever."

He leaves at this— probably not liking my tone. If I was on the receiving end, I wouldn't either. So I can't really blame him.

But I know tomorrow he will pretend it never happened. That's what people do who love you. They put their arms around you and love you when you're not so lovable.