Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or anything else belonging to JK
Rowling. Everything but the plot belongs to her and her publishers alone. I
am not earning any type of profit on this. No copyright infringement is
intended.
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Patterned Upholstery
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Soft, patterned upholstery. Crackling noises and sparks flying from the fireplace. Portraits of famous witches and wizards chatting softly or sleeping. The room is empty.
She sits in the chair charmed to swivel and rock back and forth. Blankets in a lump up to her nose. Feet on the edge of the table with her knees bent. Staring with red, bleary eyes at a pile of magazines stacked on a table. Pushing off with her left foot, listening to the creaking sounds the table makes as she pushes. Back and forth. Back and forth. Mouth and eyes open wide, never swallowing or blinking. Back and forth.
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It's hard to scream when everybody's looking at you.
Laughing, taunting, pointing. Whispering the rude nickname assigned to you by peers -- not friends, but peers, who nudge each other sharply in the ribs as you walk by, catching their sniggers and spitting them out loudly as you pass them.
You've always been told not to care.
Taught not to notice, and they think you don't; they wouldn't care if you did. But you always have.
It burns. More than any of them could ever know or feel. Melts away your insides with your bones, and seeps through your flesh until you don't think you can stand it anymore. All you can do is find a place to sit, and widen your eyes, and notice everything in the room except those making comments on your stringy hair or the earrings your mother gave you for your eighth birthday that you wear every day.
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Soft, patterned upholstery. Crackling noises and sparks flying from the fireplace. Portraits of famous witches and wizards chatting not-so-softly or pretending to be sleeping. The room is completely full.
She sits in the chair charmed to swivel and rock back and forth. And that, she does. She swivels and rocks, and swivels and rocks, and they all think she's insane. Maybe she is.
She continues to push herself with her foot against the table, and as she slowly fades away, the chair keeps rocking.
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Patterned Upholstery
---
Soft, patterned upholstery. Crackling noises and sparks flying from the fireplace. Portraits of famous witches and wizards chatting softly or sleeping. The room is empty.
She sits in the chair charmed to swivel and rock back and forth. Blankets in a lump up to her nose. Feet on the edge of the table with her knees bent. Staring with red, bleary eyes at a pile of magazines stacked on a table. Pushing off with her left foot, listening to the creaking sounds the table makes as she pushes. Back and forth. Back and forth. Mouth and eyes open wide, never swallowing or blinking. Back and forth.
---
It's hard to scream when everybody's looking at you.
Laughing, taunting, pointing. Whispering the rude nickname assigned to you by peers -- not friends, but peers, who nudge each other sharply in the ribs as you walk by, catching their sniggers and spitting them out loudly as you pass them.
You've always been told not to care.
Taught not to notice, and they think you don't; they wouldn't care if you did. But you always have.
It burns. More than any of them could ever know or feel. Melts away your insides with your bones, and seeps through your flesh until you don't think you can stand it anymore. All you can do is find a place to sit, and widen your eyes, and notice everything in the room except those making comments on your stringy hair or the earrings your mother gave you for your eighth birthday that you wear every day.
---
Soft, patterned upholstery. Crackling noises and sparks flying from the fireplace. Portraits of famous witches and wizards chatting not-so-softly or pretending to be sleeping. The room is completely full.
She sits in the chair charmed to swivel and rock back and forth. And that, she does. She swivels and rocks, and swivels and rocks, and they all think she's insane. Maybe she is.
She continues to push herself with her foot against the table, and as she slowly fades away, the chair keeps rocking.