Spellbind

14. Disjointed

A/N:

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<<<<< = Flashback

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Niyla POV:

There was no denying,— no way to convince myself it wasn't true— everyone was looking at us. From subtle glances to prolonged stares, we were in the center of a spotlight as we entered the Hall for the last thirty minutes of breakfast. Rita Skeeter— a journalist from the Daily Prophet— was invited to Hogwarts to take pictures of the seven Champions and allowed to interview us all; so we have been excused from our afternoon classes for the day.

Lunch seemed to lurch forward, I had no reason to stress over the afternoon coming so soon since I didn't have to attend Snape's class today. But it was the free hours before dinner that I couldn't stop fidgeting about. What would happen if I avoided George long enough? In my absence, could he eventually become unsure of how to approach me?

I thought carefully, but cowardly, all day about what was the best thing to do. Confess my feelings for him are still just as strong. Or, retreat. And bury them until the confession isn't an inconvenience for us both. I wanted badly for something to happen so it'd be easier for me to commit to a decision. Maybe I wasn't one hundred percent sure if I wanted to stir things any further with him and I unconsciously wanted an external force to make my decision for me.

I took Draco's words with careful consideration, fumbling over them and his prompting for me to talk to Weasley, but for some reason; for some incomprehensible doubt that weighed heavy on my chest each second it pulsated through me. I felt whichever decision I'd choose would be the wrong one.— All of them. With a harrowing realization, I knew I was too weak and too much of a coward to make up my mind for myself.

Weasley would have to tell me what he wanted and I would fall into— or leave him be, if that's what he asked of me— him. Because if my resolve led to discontentment within him, I hardly think I would truly get over that guilt.

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My breath skidded down my throat, and I exhaled low and long before pushing open the door to the room Mr. Bagman and the other staff and students were told to gather. The classroom was small, all the desks were pushed to one side of the room; except for three of them. The three desks were laced together with a deep purple cloth draped over them, five chairs placed in a row directly in front of a blackboard. Mr. Bagman sat in one of the five chairs at the adjoined desks, his body slightly turned toward a blonde curly-haired woman, who wore bright red lipstick and long synthetic nails matching in color.

Most of the other Champions were talking, however, Krum was standing alone with a bored expression. A pump-looking man was adjusting a large black camera, taking careful glances at Fleur and Funda.

"Ah, here he is!" Mr. Bagman turned in the direction of the entrance.

Harry came in after me with Fred, he stood eagerly and hurried to the two. For a second I met their eyes and they shot me a faint smile as I strode toward the other side of the room. Bagman was just as excited to have Harry as a Champion, as the Daily Prophet is to have won an interview with him. He didn't look too happy about the growing publicity.

I settled into one of the empty desks on the other side of the room. Seven desks mirrored the staff's, but ours were bare and an arm's length apart. My eyes cast around the room for a second time, catching a swift glance from Krum, and Harry suddenly being towed away by the crimson-taloned blonde woman from the Daily Prophet. Guess she couldn't wait to interview the Great Harry Potter.