the lucky one

the ginger allure

A purply sky washes the ceiling of the Great Hall, tinged pink around the edges. A sliver of moon has just appeared overhead. Miranda has massive eye bags that match ceiling, hoping she's managed to conceal them with her Glamour Charm. Hermione is much better at Charms than she, but asking her would involve telling her why she has the eye bags in the first place.

Nightmares. Well— not really nightmares, but whispers, visions of things that could be. She hasn't told anyone. Not Ron, not Ginny, not Hermione. Not Matt, who would just worry and run to tell Dumbledore and Snape. Not even Harry. Especially not Harry. He has enough on his plate already without her adding to it with her own stupid Voldemort shit.

He's got his own Voldemort shit to worry about.

The five of them are all eating dessert in the Great Hall, sans Ginny, who is presumably out and about with Dean Thomas. Four of them are discussing their dinner with Slughorn the previous night.

"I still can't believe we got to meet the Gwenog Jones," exclaims Mateo reverently, sucking the remaining dregs of ice cream off of his spoon.

"She was quite impressive," Hermione agrees thoughtfully, turning the page of the book she just got from the library. Her lips are pursed as she remarks, "Though perhaps a bit full of herself."

Ron scowls very ferociously into his bowl of ice cream. It's an expression he's been sporting quite often lately. Miranda suspects he's feeling bit left out, and from what Harry's told her about Quidditch practices, he's not performing well in other areas of his life either.

Right now, she actually feels slightly sorry for laughing yesterday when Ginny called him a prat after he'd elbowed Demelza Robins in the nose. Though, not too bad. He had been acting like quite apart lately, and his surly mood had a nasty habit of popping up at the worst times and bringing everyone else down along with him.

"What day is our next meeting?" asks Miranda, rummaging through her cluttered school bag. She sifts through loose parchment and broken quills, a half empty box of chocolate frogs, and a wilted daisy Harry had tucked behind her ear this morning during their free, but has no luck. Where is that schedule?

"It's right before break," Harry tells her with a smile, handing her the schedule that has been sitting on the bench beside her all along. "Remember? He told us last night. He's having a Christmas party."

Miranda palms her forehead, kissing Harry on the cheek, "What would I do without you?" This sort of occurrence is much too common for her liking.

"Lose your head," he teases. A spoonful of ice cream leaves a few drops on the corner of Harry's mouth, but his thumb swipes up the extra bit of vanilla and lands between his lips as he licks the rest clean off his finger. Miranda can see his tongue drag over his lips before taking another bite—

"Drool much?" Ron cocks his head, breaking Miranda from her reverie. his ice cream spoon is pointed at her like a dagger, his eyebrows raised.

Miranda flips him off, cheeks very warm. She can feel Harry's smirk burning a hole into her. "Shut up, Weasley," she mumbles.

Harry takes a bit of melted ice cream on his finger and taps the tip of her nose with it, eyes bright and mischievous. "You have a little something on your face," he gestures, "just there."

Miranda wrinkles her nose at him, swiping the sticky spot away with her index finger and sucking the remnants off. She prefers chocolate, but ice cream is ice cream. "I can't believe I love you."

Harry grins, "Neither can I."

"Do you think I need to get new dress robes for Slughorn's?" Hermione mulls to herself. Miranda has been wondering the same thing.