#dellaplunkett

Dahlia knew that she wasn’t a nice person, not to those she deemed irrelevant anyway. By that, anyone who didn’t display complete love and affection for her, or didn’t live up to the WTC’s indoctrinated ideologies. 

She wanted to be better than that.

Despite knowing this, the guilt never seemed to bother her, at least not overtly. The shame and regret built up inside her, to such an extent that Dahlia would run off to the room of requirement and scream. She would scream and sob and heave until she was exhausted, eyes bloodshot from the crying and voice hoarse from the wails. 

She smoked to relax.She drank to forget.But they weren’t enough. Merely temporary solutions to a much more permanent issue.That’s why she needed the room.

Dahlia finished, her fingers trembling and whole body feeling weak, but at least it was gone. She had cursed herself for hours, screeching at her reflection in the wall-high mirror. 

The things people said about Dahlia behind her back, Scorpius always wondered how Dahlia didn’t seem bothered. It was because she had heard them before, and nothing anyone else says can hurt if you hear it from yourself first.

She walks out of the room after calming down. Her makeup has been reapplied and hair neatened before she steps back out into the cool corridor of the seventh floor. She quickly makes her way back to the great hall, bumping into a younger redhead and knocking he other girl’s books from her hands. She almost blurts out something unpleasant, but stops herself, picturing her own sobbing reflection that didn’t stand up and leave the room of requirement like she did, and the words catch in her throat.

“Sorry.”

It wasn’t that she was angry, Niamh lied to herself as she paced around the tiny yellow bedroom, it was simply that she was sad. Though, she thought, if she were angry that wouldn’t be so bad would it? Frankly, it was a little bit justified she decided, before quickly reminding herself that she wasn’t angry. Della had every right, every right, to do whatever she wanted. In fact, she could go back to her stupid underwater school if she wanted to. Niamh didn’t care anymore. She didn’t care about her long red hair, or her bright blue eyes, or her charming little laugh that made Niamh feel- she didn’t care. 

Huffing, Niamh sat on her bed, grabbing Gizmo with a little too much force. He wriggled in her arms for a moment before subduing under her petting. Niamh and the cat had been holed up together for going on 48-hours, making Gizmo the only witness to the Head Girl’s frustration. He’d listened to Niamh listing every kiss they’d shared (under mistletoe, by the lake, outside the kitchens, on the train just before it pulled into King’s Cross), he’d sat patiently through the fifteen hour analysis of “maybe we should just be friends”, and sat kindly on her back as Niamh had cried through the first night after receiving the letter. In that moment, as she sat on the bed petting her cat, his eyes seemed to say “it was like five days Niamh, chill out.” However, Niamh decided to ignore her cats advice, and instead transferred to her desk.

Parchment. Ink. Quill.

Della-

Sorry for taking so long to reply. I wasn’t quite sure what to say. I think we could have had something if you’d given it a shot. But, I’m not going to try and force anything, and if you want to give up that’s fine. Have a nice life.

Niamh FT

Perfect.

Niamh jumped to her feet and burst into the narrow hallway leading into living room. 

“Da!” she cried, parchment clutched in her palm, “Dad I need an owl!” 

Seamus looked up as she burst into the dining room, spoon half-way to his mouth. “Hey hon, you doing better or-”

“Owl,” Niamh demanded, interrupting his sentence. Almost laughing Seamus stood up and quickly collected his spotted owl from his bedroom. As soon as she saw the bird Niamh began tying the letter to it’s leg and practically threw it out the window the second she was done.