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My interaction with Celeste was short.
We shook hands, exchanged names, and made some useless small talk that I honestly can't remember the content of now just a few weeks later. I hate small talk—it's empty and stupid and hollow, and yet every interaction I've been having with anyone these last few years has felt empty and stupid and hollow whether it was small talk or not. People have all these great expectations, good or bad, and they only ever talk to each other with the intention of getting something out of it under the guise of politeness.
I definitely see the resemblance to Blaise. They have the same high cheekbones, posture, deep and dark complexion. Even their eyes are similar, though Celeste's are bigger and more expressive. There's something to her, though, that I can't quite define. And it's unnerving, this indefinable quality, off-putting even. She did nothing but smile graciously and laugh whole-heartedly at my father's subpar jokes in the five minutes we spent together on that street in Knockturn Alley, but there was something about her that had me at edge. Maybe the fact that her gracious smiles are somehow at the same time malicious, and she has the laugh of a cruel god and a chorus of angels. And her necklace. It's the Dark Mark, of course, and it's brave of her to be wearing it so proudly around her neck after what happened last summer—though she's American, so maybe she doesn't know about what happened at the World Cup.
No. This isn't some oblivious girl. She knows. Doesn't make it any less foolish, though.
Our interaction was short, but I can't get that golden skull with the snakes through it's eyes out of my head, or the way her coiling black curls resemble a head of snakes, or how her bright brown eyes are so sweet but stony.
Something about her draws me in, though I'm not sure if that's in a good way or not.
"Where's your badge?" Mother asks, snapping me out of my staring stupid across the platform at some bright-faced and snotty first years hugging their parents goodbye.
"Hmm?"
"Your badge," Mother repeats, quirking an eyebrow at me as she brushes invisible dust off of my shoulders. "The Prefect badge."
"Oh," my eyebrows rise as I pat at my pockets, digging into them to procure one shiny green and silvery badge reading Prefect in large font. "Nearly forgot about that."
Mother takes the pin from me and smiles slightly to herself as she carefully fastens it to my robes. I smile back at her, my stiff shoulders relaxing a little bit as she straightens the tiny piece of metal. Mother has looked so stressed out this entire summer. She's beautiful, and I'll always think that, but I've noticed more and more stress lines appearing over her eyebrows and her lips perpetually curved down. She's been sleeping longer hours and waking up even more tired than before.
