Ballad

Mum was going to kill her. No question.

She clamped her teeth together and let a small stream of air hiss through the slight gap between the two in front. The resultant whistle amused her, so she did it again.

Now, back to business.

She couldn't off-hand recall how many sundresses she'd ruined since the start of summer holiday, but she was sure that her mother had a flawless mental record of each stain, each tear, each loss of a button. And magic or no magic, the particular damages that she tended to inflict upon her clothing were not easy to rectify.

One more incident like this and her mother would revoke her Muggle clothing privileges. Two more months of summer holiday, and she'd be shuffling around in scratchy, stifling robes while her brothers sniggered and teased and flaunted their blue jeans and rugby shirts.

Bloody hell.

She stood in front of the sink, squinting at the tiny ink splot on her skirt. It was small, yes, but that didn't matter. Mum would notice all the same. She had a real talent for it.

She turned the knob of the faucet and grimaced at the rust-speckled water that emerged. Everything about 12 Grimmauld Place was dusty, decaying, disgusting...

She wrinkled her nose with disdain and drummed her fingertips on the sink. This was bloody ridiculous. Finally, after several agonizing moments of waiting, the water cleared up to her satisfaction. She lifted the skirt of her dress and stood on tiptoe, lowering the fabric beneath the stream.

It wasn't working. Maybe soap...? She scrubbed the offending spot with a crusty bar of hand soap. Rinse, repeat. Wait. Nothing.

Her fingers itched as she thought of her wand. Maybe just a teeny tiny little spell...but NO. Tempting the Ministry of Magic would be most unwise, especially in this place. Damn.

She sensed that someone was watching her. Probably Mum, or one of the boys; she was going to get it now. A beleaguered sigh, and she leaned back very slightly to peer around the doorframe.

It was him.

He wasn't staring at her straight-out. In fact, he appeared to be rifling through a stack of leather-bound spell-books. But he was watching her all the same, she knew it.

Her cheeks began to tingle, and she wondered if Mum was right about her impending sunburn. The feeling only intensified when she realised that in her efforts to clean the spot on her dress, she had lifted her skirt far up her legs, almost to her knickers.

A slight panic seized her; should she close the door? That would surely be the simplest solution. It would never have to be mentioned...she would never allude to his watching her. Surely that was the thing to do.

But she paused. There was something about it...something interesting. She couldn't have explained it if asked, and she knew that there was something inherently wrong about it, whatever it was...but even so...

She looked down at her exposed legs. Skinny and freckled, blemished with mosquito bites, and yet...yet.

She let her peripheral vision wander over to him. He had turned his gaze to face her more fully now; she could see the irises of his eyes. Grey.

With a fractional extension of her foot, she nudged the door open just a little bit farther.