Almost Midnight

I didn't think I'd ever come to care about such things. Holidays and parties and such things are for more frivolous types, the brain-challenged flighty girls whose ambitions reach no further than the nearest wedding chapel.

My reach far exceeds the grasp of such foolish schoolgirl fantasies, and never before have I cared who was kissing whom at New Year's Midnight. I attended parties, because it is polite. I toasted the new year and sang Auld Lang Syne, but I never really bothered.

So why do I stand here, feet glued to the floor before my mirror, pondering hair up or hair down as if it's matter of global importance?

Hair up. Neckline down. Eyes colored, lips cherried, powdered and primped.

Seventh year. Head Girl.

I am not ravishing. I am pretty, but not overtly so.

My brain is my key. I know this. I will never be ravishing.

But tonight, on this New Year's of the Full Moon and glistening white snow, I want to be beautiful.

Dear gods and goddesses, make me beautiful, just for this one night.

Make my eyes sparkle, my smile dazzle, my body entice.

Just for an evening.

Then I'll go back, then I'll return to prim and proper Minerva. Then I'll be Plain Brain again, the Serious One, the Studious One.

But for the night, for that moment when the old year dies and the new year is born, let her love me, want me, need me.

***

Ruddy hell.

Ruddy bleedin' hell.

I look like something the proverbial cat dragged in. Why do I care? I mean, it's a stupid party. Something the faculty dreams up to make us feel like we aren't kids, even when we know that's what they think. Lots of pumpkin juice...why do they always cram that vile stuff down our throats? Would it hurt to conjure up a bottle of champagne or two?

Oh, now, Xiomara, don't be cynical. Gods and goddesses, we can't have our star Seeker bringing down the holiday fun for the rest of the youngsters, can we?

There is no way to have fun when the gatekeepers insist on calling you "youngsters," now is there?

Hair's a ruddy mess.

Face? Ugh.

And clothes, we can't do much about them, can I?

She'll be there. She's always there, precisely on time and appropriately dressed. She always has just the right amount of fun. I've noticed that. She never guffaws. She laughs just so long, just so loudly. She never offends or startles.

Her hair will be up, I suppose, only one strand out of place, casual perfection in its utter randomness.

If I didn't have it so bad for her, I'd hate the cat.

Don't be cynical, Xiomara.

Minerva McGonagall. Head Girl. Brilliant student. Quidditch champ.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Just straighten your hair, git. Wash your face and try to unrumple your clothes.

Be the sport, girl. Make them laugh.

When midnight comes, though, don't look her way.

It won't help to know who she's kissing.

***

Utterly unbearable. That's the only word to describe it. The teachers watch us, as if we're children.

Leonard Munshin, a boy from Hufflepuff, wants to dance. He's been eyeing me since eight-thirty. I can barely stand the sight of him, but I smile politely and beg off. No, it's a bit warm, now. Thank you, I've promised this one to Roger, maybe later?

She's surrounded by people. Boys, girls, even faculty members want to be near her, to laugh at those jokes she tells. Gods, to tell such stories! To be so loved, so funny, so popular without all the rubbish that goes with it.

She's herself, every moment of every day. She breathes easily, talks clearly, and I seriously doubt she cares one whit for what other people think.

I am fairly certain she'd tell Leonard Munshin what to bloody well do with that dance.

I'm crowded with obligation; she's crowded with admirers.

Truth be told, I want to be in that crowd, laughing so hard that it hurts, watching her spin those amazing stories that just seem to materialize, brilliant, from her scathing wit.

I want to be at her side.

Damn. I hate to be so afraid.

I'm afraid of my own ruddy shadow.

I'm afraid of those people crowded around her.

I'm to laugh so loud it hurts.

And I'm afraid, so terribly afraid, to see her. Up close. Fresh-faced and honest. Raw and unpretending.

Because if I stopped, even for a moment, to really look at her, I might never turn away.

***

Almost midnight.

Hate the band. Hate the food.

Company's okay.

She was hanging about with that Munshin fellow all night.

I know she's a straight arrow, but really, Leonard Munshin?

Gods, she was perfect. I knew it. Every hair, every line of her body, utter perfection.

I saw her staring at me.

All night, she kept glancing at me with this pained look just covered up by polite disinterest.

I ruddy well laughed louder.

Stuck-up bitch. Let her have her Munshins and her perfect smile and her Head Girl airs. I don't need any conceited Gryffindor to feel good about myself.

Liar.

Liar.

Big, loud, stupid git of a liar.

I'd throttle Leonard Munshin with my bare hands if I thought she'd smile at me. If I thought she'd stand next to me and listen intently to what I had to say, rather than stare at me from a safe distance, like I'm some sort of rabid monkey with a speech impediment, I'd dance with him myself.

Almost midnight.

***

Almost midnight.

She's gone. I finally got rid of Leonard, my Hufflepuff shadow. I lied and faked a headache. I would have faked a seizure if it would have gotten me across the room, away from his insistent adoration, and within earshot of Xiomara Hooch.

She'd laugh at me.

She thinks I'm a prig, and she's right.

She draws crowds of laughing, happy people who want to be with her. I can't even summon the courage to ditch an annoying Hufflepuff long enough to get some punch.

I'm being paranoid. She wasn't laughing at me. For that to happen, I would have had to register on her radar, to matter enough to be worth the effort.

Almost midnight, and she's gone. I didn't see her leave. I don't know if she left alone, or with one of her many admirers.

Another year dies. Another year is born.

Alone.

***

Almost midnight.

Two girls, opposite lights, cross paths by chance.

Two girls, opposite souls, reach out in loneliness.

Almost midnight.

The full moon glistens on the snow, as they walk slowly, meandering, not wanting to reach their common destination.

Almost midnight, and fears are met by desperate courage, born of desire and curious determination.

They speak, tentatively, hesitantly, frightened by their own imagined deficiencies.

The moon watches as the old year dies.

Almost midnight, and words create magic. Glistening snow freezes uncertainty, crystallizing and shattering long-held illusions until the warmth of truth can shine through.

The moon feeds the magic of the snow, each footstep releasing illusions so that new growth can blossom.

Almost midnight.

The moon turns away for privacy as two souls meet, two pairs of lips join, and a new year, finally, is born.

Midnight.

The End