Flowers || R.A.B.

Flowers

"You're beautiful. As a flower."

"Then, why won't you make me yours?"

"Because every flower dries eventually. Each one of them becomes fragile with time. But not everyone has given their lives to the hands of time. No, some of us are cursed by it. We stay with heavy centuries on our shoulders as we watch the flowers vanish slowly."

The library was almost empty today. This wasn't surprising because most of the students were enjoying the day at Hogsmeade. Either buying gifts or just wandering from one shop window to another. November was slowly but surely coming to an end and as Christmas time was now, swiftly approaching the snow-covered school grounds, a festive but relaxed atmosphere was lingering in the air. Everyone excitedly awaited the magical part of the year.

Except him.

Regulus has never really liked this time of the year but that wasn't the reason for the current state of his mind. Even Evan had told him that morning that he was grumpier than usual, but he wasn't the only one to notice his friend's despair. Regulus' concentration in classes became loose as he struggled to pay attention to his professors' interpretations. His marks took a quick turn down and before he knew that, he wasn't at the top of his class. Many professors have noticed this sudden change in his behavior and one time even Professor McGonagall asked him to stay after the lesson ended. He'd be lying if he said that, it didn't touch his heart, at least a little, when the usually strict and precise woman asked him motherly if he was alright. But of course, he hasn't uttered a word to his closest friends, he wouldn't confide in her.

And that's why he was here, in the library, ready to get the post of the top student of his year back.

He was looking for a book to help him write an essay about the Salem Witch Trials for Professor Binns. He trailed his tired eyes along the leather backs of the books. He yawned and shook his head as if it were meant to cure his sleep deprivation. He grabbed the first book that looked somewhat useful and sat down at the nearest table. He took the first sheet of parchment he found in his bag, altogether with a bottle of ink and a quill. He took the book and started working on his essay. He was three words in when his mind started to wonder again.

"I'm too old for you, you know that right?"

"Didn't you say, that elves age differently?"

"I did, didn't I? But still."

Hand in hand with his marks had taken a downfall in his appetite and sleep. He started to skip breakfasts and lunches and sometimes dinners. These days he's always felt like he'd throw up any minute the little his friends almost shoved down his throat. The image of food touching his lips had begun to feel so unfamiliar. And it started showing.

When he saw himself in the bathroom mirror the other night his mind was unable to process what he was looking at. At first, he could only recognize the outlines of a young man. Although he could already tell that what he was about to see was rather ugly, he still reached out his hand to wipe off the water of the mirror.

The bathroom air was stuffy, hot, and heavy. The night behind the bathroom window was thick like a rich chocolate mousse. Almost as if inviting to dip a spoon in. And in the mirror stood a silhouette of a boy. His collarbones were sticking out. His ribs took more obvious outlines. He was staring at his outline and his outline's gaze was fixed back at him. Each one of them looking unhealthy and miserable.

And all that for one simple reason.

His pride was hurt. His feelings were rejected. He was rejected.