entanglements | d.m.

01.law

September '98 | H E R

Devyn can't believe she's here. Again.

So much changed, yet so much is the same.

The Great Hall is restored to it's former glory, candles hovering above the hundreds of students heads. Students, who don't give a sign of being bothered sitting where, just four months ago, they mourned the dead bodies of friends and family.

No sign at first glance, that is.

Take a closer look and you find all kinds of pointers to the heaviness. The trauma. The need to scream. Or hide. Or cry. But that's the thing; people rarely look closer.

They are so involved with themselves, wondering what others might think or how they come off, or just dealing with their own mess, they barely notice that other people exist with just as much of a complex life as their own.

Sonder. That is the word Devyn learned this summer in therapy—ordered by her mother without discussion.

The world is big and people have layers and even if you share one as a collective, each and every one perceives it different, processes it different. Everyone thinks different.

Devyn touches the top of her chest, feeling the pendant under her school shirt, pressing against her skin. The habit has become of calming nature.

Same thing here—for every person, different things work. Megan opposite Devyn likes to hum her favourite tune in her head whenever she's stressed. Through it, she hardly listens to Sue talking about the hormones a brain shoots around in challenging situations. Logic has always been a comfort for the diligent Ravenclaw, facts that explain the nature of conflicting bodily responses.

A loud giggle comes from Devyn's right, Lisa and Isobel gossiping over the many glow-ups some guys had over the summer. Respectfully, these two are nice but have always been unmoved by reality. Focusing on the objective of things—that would be their habit.

Not that their behaviour is to shame—to each their own—or out of place. The mood is rather cheerful thanks to the excited and utterly clueless first years, who hopefully won't have as much of a rough school life as their predecessors. May they only be jinxed every once in a while instead of fearing a wandering basilisk or the arrival of prison escapees.

A Death Eater disguising himself as a new professor is Devyn's personal favourite.

She is just taking Michael and Anthony's hushed discussion under her visor, noticing the small smiles that slip quicker than last year, when her best friend is leaning in.

His navy and silver tie is only half tied, the cloak hanging off one shoulder. "What is he doing back?"

Tarquin's gaze is set on the table next to them, looking between heads.

Devyn has noticed him earlier, on the platform way ahead of them—the very moment her stomach dropped beyond reach, leaving her plate as empty and sparkling gold as when it materialized before her.

You cannot miss that mop of white-blond hair, seeming so clean—airy and above everyone else—though the whole school knows that everything encompassing Draco Malfoy is far from pure.

To be frank, he has a fucking nerve to return after what he pulled the last time he was on Hogwarts grounds, and then sit amongst his friends like they own the school. Especially his two friends Nott and Zabini who have their noses high in the air acquired a new temper.

But then again, the Ministry encouraged the pupils to return and sure enough, the letter came flying in on their boasty homes.

But it's Malfoy's existence—only his—that she cannot block out like others. It is demanding every atom of her body, tying up her trachea and reason why she glances away, just in time to avoid him looking her way. She can feel his gaze all over her skin, as though he's touching her, enticing her.