entanglements | d.m.

55.valentine

February '99 | H E R

Unpopular opinion, but the color pink has got to be enjoyed to limited amounts. Same goes with flowers and heart-shaped anythings.

And why is pink associated with love anyway? Because it's girly and love can only be soft and feminine? Fuck no. Devyn calls sexism.

"Stop glaring, Devyn," Spindle, the adjacent shop owner calls. "You're scaring away my customers."

The bell to his shop door jingles as a pair of younger students rush out, casting wtf looks over their shoulders at Devyn.

"I'm not glaring," she states clearly, ripping her gaze away from the abomination of Gladrags Wizardwear decorated for the holiday. Dropping her elbows to lean on the counter, she massages her temples with her fingers. "I'm getting a headache."

At that, her grumpy boss calls from the backroom, sounding distracted, "I'll pay you extra today, Devyn, just don't make me come to the front."

The amount of arguments that have taken place over the last years Devyn has worked here are unbelievable. This year, it seems Travers has given up. His side of the shop, at least, stays the same lovely dreary way.

Spindle walks towards her with a smile on his wrinkled face and a glass in hand, pink punch swirling on it's own. In his soft pink ensemble, his enthusiasm is clear. "Take this. It'll soften your heart."

"My heart isn't the problem." Palms falling flat on the rough wood, she straightens while giving him a deadpan look. "It's my eyes and brain that burn."

Shaking his head disapprovingly, Spindle puts the glass down before folding his arms. "You're spending too much time with him."

Again, Travers calls, "I promise you no amount of years of constant Spindle-fication will turn this kid into a love-sod like you."

Devyn shrugs helplessly, fighting a smile at the creative way he put it. "He's not wrong."

Spindle presses his lips together, staring at her like she is some hopeless case. Then he glances at the punch and gently slaps her shoulder in what must be an attempt of sympathy. "Soften your heart, Devyn. You're still young."

Holding in her laughter, she watches the wizard trott up the two steps that to his side of the shop where he sips on some punch himself.

The bell to Dervish jingles. A small wave of customers rush in from the cold, and the last of it bringing in Theodore Nott. Locking eyes, he comes straight for her, on a mission.

She slides the glass of punch to him over the counter. "Here, drink this."

"What's that?"

"A love potion."

He draws back, eyeing her skeptically. "I don't want to fall in love with you."

Rolling her eyes, she lifts the cup to his nose. He draws back further, thinking she wants to force-feed him.

She rolls her eyes, again. "What do you smell?"

Hesitantly, he brings his face to the glass, still keeping an eye on her. He goes for a second sniff to be sure. "Something fruity."

"Is there a mother of pearl sheen to it?" Her brow lifts. "Or steam spiraling up? Come on, Theo, we have our final tests coming up and you forget what we had two days ago in Potions?"

He grins knowingly. "What did you smell?"

Him, obviously. Apples and mint and cologne and broomstick handle. Her knees had gone weak in class. Draco stood right beside her, she smells those things, smells him, every damn day, but the potion made it so concentrated, her head had gone whoozy. And Draco looked ready to devour her in class, so he took a step back because he's respectful and perfect and everything a girl could want.