overflooding

When Draco Malfoy realized he'd been betrayed by the only person capable of breaking down his armour, he fled to the only place he could sought some sort of consolation. Or solitute.

Narcisa Malfoy wept as she watched her only son tear himself apart. He screamed and destroyed the room, pulled at his white-blonde hair and punched the white walls. Blood dripped from his knuckes and on his wand, porpusely left on the floor.

Draco Malfoy didn't weep. He thought being forced to watch his mother being tortured in a cage in the heart of his family manor had destroyed all his body's capacity of producing any tears left. But after his voice gave out and his throat hurt, blood was drying on his forehead after he smashed his own face on a table, he realized there were crystal droplets rolling down his cheeks.

He felt as if there was not enough air, just too much fire in his chest rapidly burning him from the inside out. He was blind with rage, betray, something pouding inside threatening to break him into a million sharp glass pieces.

Love. It tore at him with every breath, burned his soul, his being, his mind and his heart. The heart he thought lost when he was still a boy.

As Logan slid his hand into mine, I shook my head to focus on the time of the music and found my spot on the right side of the room. His grip was firm - so firm I knew I could lean into it and he wouldn't let me fall. I didn't though.

I kept my hand in his, tilting my head to the side the way Benjamin had corrected me so many times the past few weeks.

The music started. Slow, dragging, melting. We danced and occupied all the space in the room, with the occasional screams coming from Benjamin's desk.

"That's NOT the highest you can go", he shouted when I kicked my right leg hard enough to touch my ear. It didnt't touch it though.

"FIVE, SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT, ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING?", he moved in closer, standing near the center of the room with his arms crossed over his wide chest, his eyes following our every move.

I felt Logan stiffing as he lifted me above his left shoulder and the music stopped.

"Okay, no, let's go back. Amalia, you need to lift your torso when he picks you up. You're falling over. Again, from the top". Benjamin strutted back and sat in his chair, pressing play again and watching us with his chin on his hands.

"You should move a little faster to get to me on cue" Logan said, taking my hand in position again. He always looked serious in rehearsals, but today he looked almost angry.

I didn't have the time or energy to ask. "Noted" was all I could manage to respond.

We danced again and again until it was pointless, because we were both painting and shaking and Benjamin got tired of yelling.

"Alright, that's enough for today, although I do want to try a different approach on that second lift tomorrow. I'll see you both at 4". He touched both our heads with a little playful punch and headed out of the room, quickly making his way through the crowd of little girls gathered at the door, ready for the next class.

Logan offered me a hand to get up, but I was too tired to move.

"Come" he insisted, pointing to the anxious girls waiting. I let him get me up. We got our bags and headed for the bathroom. The whole way I couldn't help but noticed the frown between his brows didn't get any softer for the past 3 hours.

"What is wrong with you today?" I asked in a mild tone, trying not to sound too annoyed. He hadn't looked me in the eye all afternoon and I got yelled at for missing a beat he was supposed to be looking at me for.

Logan turned, seeming surprised. For a moment, the frown was gone - he just looked at the wall behind me as we stopped at the double doors to the girls bathroom.

Then a new frown formed and he seemed to be the one annoyed.

"I'm tired" his eyes droped to the ground and his lips were in a thin line. "See you tomorrow", he turned to his own double doors and disappeared, leaving me to my own thoughts.

Logan was complicated. We had been dancing together for five years, since the ages of 13 and 15, and we were very comfortable with each other. He's brush and tie my hair on competitions. I would brush his and hold his hand to stop mine from shaking before going on stage. He would push me to my limits and make me laugh until my stomach hurt. We'd talk for hours laying on exercise mattresses and share our deepest thoughts.

We worked. But today, we didn't work and I couldn't figure out why.

I changed clothes and looked at myself in the mirror. I let my hair loose and splashed water on my face, lingering there for a moment. The cold water felt good. I braided my hair on the side of my neck and went out in the cold air, now that my body was cooling off. Logan was already gone.

The streets were dark and I could feel my hair starting to drip as I crossed the street. I tucked my hands in the pockets of my coat, internally screaming at myself for being so stubborn. I had been so sure earlier that morning, when I opened the apartment window and was greeted by a shy but fierce sunlight, that the big dark-green umbrella that always made my purse five times heavier would not be needed that day.

The cars were driving fast, spilling water here and there on pedestrians, and I felt a big spray of street water in the back of my legs as a Range Rover turned the corner. I stopped for a moment and almost laughed. It was almost as if the British weather was testing me, checking to see if it could find my breaking point. After cleaning cages all day and rolling on the floor with a 200kg lion, I had to admit to felt I was being cleansed by the skies. But then I remembered that water was full of dirt and carbon particles and went back to the thought that the cold wind and rain were simply mocking me after a long, dirty day.

The bright traffic lights contrasted to the foggy rain and made it feel like it was later in the day than it actually was. At that point, I stopped trying to walk as fast as I could to get out of the rain and just sighed. What was the point? I was already drenched anyway. I ran my hands through my hair, trying to squeeze some of the water off as I approached the coffee shop door. Or so I thought. I looked up just in time to avoid being pushed to the street as a group of photographers stepped back all at once so a small teenager could go inside the shop. As the door opened and closed, I felt the warmth and the smell of vanilla, and suddenly felt very irritable with the little crowd blocking the way.

“Excuse me” I said, trying to sound polite and relaxed, even though I was starting to shake from the cold drops still falling from the dark clouds above us.

At least twelve cameras were pointed directly through the glass doors and at first I didn’t think anyone heard me. But then one of the men looked back at my frowning and quickly tapped another on the shoulder, and I was able to make my way through them and slam the door behind me.

I always thought it was much better, cheaper and ecologically sustainable to make coffee or beverages at home. However, as I felt my feet starting to unfreeze inside my boots as I walked further inside and into the line, I admitted that I deserved the luxury of a hot cinnamon cocoa after making a pact with myself to never trust my own weather forecast again. Ever since moving to the English island, I found myself more prone to coffee runs, even though I still tried to make it at home. I pulled out my reusable cup and enjoyed the warm feeling of the drink in my cold hands, and looked around.

It only took me a minute to find a ginger head in one of the tables in the corner, almost hidden from the rest of the cafe. I walked towards Olivia, sipping the hot cocoa, when one of my boots slided on the wet white floor and I had to hold onto a table nearby to keep my balance. I heard Olivia’s laugh and another strange voice, and horrified, I realized she wasn’t waiting for me alone.

That’s great, I thought.

I walked to them with as much dignity as I had left, which wasn’t a lot. I put my cup down with a thud and looked Olivia deep into her eyes.

“I immensely dislike the weather today”

She choked on her own drink, incapable of not laughing.

“Have a seat, miss rainforest” she said, pointing to the seat right across her at the small wooden table.

I sat down and finally looked to her side. A pair of bright green eyes met mine with curiosity, a hand already being held out to me.

“Hi, I’m sorry about the rain”, said the guy with the eyes, and as I shook his hand I suddenly felt a lot more conscious of the fact that I probably looked like a very miserable, wet kitten. “I’m Blake”

“I’m Georgia”, I replied instantly. I noticed a group of three girls were staring at us from two tables to our left, but Blake didn’t seem to take notice. He looked at me a little longer, squeezing his eyebrows together, as if he was focusing on one specific thought, but then turned to Olivia again and they resumed the conversation they were in before I got there.

Olivia took a sip of her drink, playing with a strand of orange-brown hair through her fingers.

“So how’s the lion? Did he manage to finally knock you down? You look like you’ve been knocked down by a lion”, she looked at Blake, expecting confirmation. He laughed lightly and I realized he only had a thermic water bottle in his hands, his fingers tapping the lid.

“Are you from the area?”, he asked, again with the eyebrows frowning. “I’m sorry, you look strangely familiar”, he added.

“No, I’m not. I’m actually from an island in South America. But I did an exchange year in Manchester when I was in high school, and I started working at the zoo here right after I graduated from university”, I stopped, afraid of rambling to a complete stranger about my complete kind of ordinary life. I guess I couldn’t take it for granted the opportunity of leaving home to work in another country doing something I love. “Which explains the lion, who did knock me down today”, I concluded to Olivia, smiling from the memory of Leo, the biggest lion on the zoo who still thought he was a cub, putting his huge paws on my shoulders and pushing me to the dusty ground, and licking my entire face in the process.

Blake nodded solemnly, as if I was explaining something of extreme value. I sipped my drink, enjoying the warmth in my fingers again as they continued to talk about a party that would happen in two days time, when two large men I didn’t notice before sitting at a nearby table stood up, and looked over at ours.

I looked back at then as Blake looked over at them and waved.

“I should go, but I’ll see you both at the party, I suppose?” He looked at me.

I turned to Olivia, but she was already nodding.

“Absolutely”, and he gave her a quick hug and a polite smile at me and left with the two men through a back door. I didn’t know the coffee shop had a back door.

“Wait, who was that? I feel like I know him too” I asked, trying to remember where I had seen that face before. I hadn’t been in the country long, but I was sure I had seen those eyes and smile even before moving.

“He is Blake Turner” she added simply. She sipped her coffee and continued. “The songwriter and musician. He’s been writing songs for all the main national artists and only recently took credit for his work. I’m sure you’ve heard him before”.

I turned my head and noticed all the men with the cameras were gone, apart from one, talking to another man on the street and showing one of his pictures in his camera.

“Hey, I didn’t realize you were friends with famous people. I would have befriended you sooner” I teased, poking her arm. “He is very charming”.

“He is indeed” she laughed, and put down her empty cup. “But I’m very much compromised and in a happy relationship. To a person, not a job” she accused.