Look At Me

Part Two

I love clothes. Surely that's natural, I mean, if your figure's as good as mine, you're bound to enjoy showing if off. I buy clothes in vast quantities, and in almost every shade. And Padma and I borrow each other's clothes like there's no tomorrow. So I had no shortage of choice when it came to selecting an outfit for the Yule ball.

The day before the ball, Padma, Lavender and I gathered in the dormitory, and surveyed our respective wardrobes. Padma had brought all her dress robes down from her Ravenclaw dormitory, and Lavender and I pulled all ours from our wardrobes and flung them on our beds. The whole room looked suddenly brighter, as the silks and velvets gleamed in the winter light.

It was a lengthy process, but we finally settled on Padma's turquoise robes, so that she could wear her locket with them. She and I look better in vivid colours, after all. Lavender dithered between her shoulderless white velvet robes and some new ones of a strange, half colour between silver and purple. By the time she had decided against the white ones, it was almost dark.

"What are you going to wear?" Padma asked, as if she'd only just realised I hadn't chosen anything. I shrugged. In my heart I felt too nervous at the thought of the important night to think about clothes - always a bad sign.

Padma began rooting through my wardrobe guiltily, holding robes up to the light and flinging them down again. After a minute, she clapped her hand to her forehead as if she'd just had a brilliant idea, and left without a word at an urgent run. Lavender and I looked at each other confusedly.

In five minutes she was back, panting, as if she'd just run all the way from her Ravenclaw dormitory, which indeed she had. Breathlessly she handed me a sizeable wrapped package.

"It's an extra birthday present from Dad," she gasped, "I'd forgotten he gave it me."

I ripped open the silver wrapping paper eagerly. Inside were the most perfect robes I'd ever seen. They were shocking pink, which Dad must have remembered was my favourite colour. The silk seemed to glow in the darkness. Underneath were gold bracelets, and a note from my father:

Dear Parvati,

Here is an extra birthday present for you, now that you are almost grown up. I know you already have more clothes than you could wear in a lifetime, but when I saw these I thought of you, and your brilliance and sparkle. In colours like this, you and Padma remind me of your mother.

The note went on for another few lines, but I couldn't read them because my eyes had suddenly blurred with tears. Fiercely I pulled myself together, and hastened to try on the robes.

As I pulled them over my head and smoothed down my hair, Lavender and Padma gave an identical gasp of admiration. But they do that every time I try on anything, it's a reflex with them. I hurried over to the mirror to inspect myself, and couldn't help smiling. The colour shone in the shadowed dormitory, bringing out the black gloss of my hair, the colour of my cheeks, and the dark glitter of my eyes. If this didn't get Harry's attention, nothing would.

I was deadly nervous, the night of the ball. Lavender, Hermione and I were dressing in our dormitory, so I had to keep up an endless stream of chatter so as not to appear odd. Lavender was all giggly about Seamus (I knew she'd liked him for ages) and even Hermione was looking distinctly on edge. She wouldn't tell us who she was going to the ball with, which was ridiculous, but she unbent enough to let me lend her my bottle of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion, which I swear by. She obviously didn't have a clue about getting herself ready; she actually had to ask me if I knew a good eyelash-curling charm. Academics can be so ignorant about that sort of thing.

I pulled my robes on slowly; there was plenty of time, and I had no intention of ripping them. I was already wearing my locket; I hadn't taken it off since the day I'd made my wish. I had a vague fear that if I did, something awful would happen. Then I did my makeup, with the care of an artist painting a picture. I pulled the gold bracelets over my wrists. Slowly, carefully, I braided my hair into a long plait, adding a gold strand as an extra touch. Hermione and Lavender gazed at me with admiring envy.

"You look beautiful," Hermione said. Bookish she may be, but I'd be the last person to deny how generous she can be. And on this occasion, as usual, she was completely correct: I was certainly looking my best.

Hermione was dithering so much she wasn't even dressed by the time we were ready, so she told us to go without her. Lavender wanted to stay and do her makeup for her, but I dragged her off. If Hermione wanted to make a grand entrance, why shouldn't she? Anyway, I was dying to see Harry.

I met him at the foot of the stairs. He was wearing green robes (inwardly I thanked my lucky stars I wasn't wearing blue like Padma: we'd have clashed horribly). The colour brought out the colour of his eyes, I realised, making them gleam mysteriously behind the frames of his glasses. At first he didn't see me through the crowd of people, all dressed in different colours, he gazed around nervously, with the air of quiet charm I adored so much in him.

Look at me, I urged silently, look at me. See how beautiful I am for your sake.

He saw me at last.

"You - er - look nice," he said.

Why did the single awkward sentence move me more than reams of poetry?

"Thanks," I said. I couldn't trust myself to say anything more to him. There would be time for heart-to-hearts later on, I told myself. To steady myself, I turned my attention to Ron.

"Padma's going to meet you in the Entrance Hall," I said to him, noting his frayed, maroon robes with foreboding. I had a feeling Padma wasn't going to be at all pleased with me.

As we moved slowly out of the common room, I saw Harry glance around, as if he would rather have remained there in front of the fire. I felt a sudden surge of fear.

The Entrance hall was like a bigger version of our common room: filled with raised voices and ablaze with unusual colour, as people milled around, dressed in robes of every imaginable shade and fabric. I felt suddenly full of life and energy, the room seemed to throb with expectation. I smiled. I couldn't help it. I seemed suddenly sure of myself, secure of my victory. He could have chosen any girl in the school, and he'd picked me (I forced myself not to remember that I had forced him into it.)

Unlike Hermione, who's always skulking off to the library, or Padma, who's quite a bit quieter than me, I always feel in my element around lots of people. I love being the centre of a crowd, especially an admiring one. As we moved through the crowd, searching for Padma, I felt people staring after me with envy and interest.

Why not, after all? I was easily one of the prettiest girls there, and had bagged arguably the most desirable partner in Hogwarts. I suppressed an urge to take Harry's hand possessively, and moved over to Padma, who was standing a few yards off, waiting for us. I was glad to see her. She's the calmer one, she always makes me feel better when I'm nervous or on edge. Besides, when the two of us are together we're doubly stunning.

I led her over to Ron, regretting for the umpteenth time his disastrous choice of robes. He's a nice guy and everything, and I know his family aren't exactly swimming in galleons, but honestly, with red hair, how could he possibly contemplate wearing maroon? I could see Padma thinking the exact same thing as she greeted Ron with an understandable lack of enthusiasm.

She was looking lovely of course; the turquoise robes suited her as if she'd been born in them. (I must get her to lend me them some time. It's not as if I've never lent her any of my robes, after all.) The effect was wasted on Ron, who was clearly still obsessed with where Hermione had got to. More fool him.

Then Professor McGonagall called:

"Champions over here, please!"

I felt a sudden twinge of excitement. I was going to process into the Great Hall with Harry, everyone would be watching, envying. I didn't mind being stared at; especially when I was looking as good as I knew I was.

So we waited by the doors, whilst everyone else filed past us with inquisitive looks. The other champions and their dates were waiting there too, of course, but no one made much conversation. Cho was looking despicably smug, in rather commonplace robes of pale green, and gripping Cedric as if she were a fungus that had sprouted onto his arm. Am I bitter about her after all this time? Surely not.

That girl Fleur from Beauxbatons was there, of course, dressed with what I had to admit was impeccable taste, although I don't think she's particularly good looking, myself. Too showy. Well... I suppose she's quite attractive, but you can tell that she won't age well. She was with Roger Davies, who looked stunned, frankly. He was gaping at her like a half-wit. Padma said afterwards that he'd been so nervous about going with Fleur his friends had dosed him with liberal amounts of alcohol beforehand.

My gaze travelled from Roger and Fleur, to Krum (wearing deep violet robes which made him look brooding and extremely attractive) who was standing behind them with his partner. I glanced at her interestedly, and for the first time that evening was genuinely shocked: it was Hermione.

It pains me to say that she was looking stunning. Her robes were exactly the right shade of blue for her, and her teeth were obviously a great improvement. I must take credit for her hair, however, which was now as sleek and glossy as my own. (I discovered the next day that she'd almost finished it. She didn't even offer to pay for a new one).

I stared at her in complete shock. She smiled rather mischievously at Harry and me, enjoying my astonishment.

"Hi, Harry!" she said. "Hi Parvati!"

I found myself smiling reluctantly. Hermione had certainly made a success of dressing herself, like she makes a success of most things she turns her hand to. I wondered absently whether she had chosen her own robe, or if someone else had picked it out for her. And if so, where had they bought it from?

My thoughts were interrupted by McGonagall ordering us to line up, and process into the Great Hall. Harry looked faintly terrified, for a celebrity he seems remarkably un-blasé about being the centre of attention. I seized his arm protectively as we marched in a line through the doors, and into the hall. As the Hall erupted into applause, I assumed my most dazzling smile and began steering Harry down the middle towards the top table. This was what I had given my wish for, and I was determined to enjoy it to the full.

I was happy. At that moment I could have done anything, defeated anyone. I was beautiful, ecstatic, powerful.

That must be how people who are loved feel all the time.

As we passed Padma and Ron, I noticed that he was glaring at Hermione, and Padma was looking far from pleased. Oh dear. Still, I could see a couple of the Beauxbatons boys staring at her admiringly, and there was no doubt that she'd find herself a much more attentive partner before the evening was over.

We reached the table far too soon for my liking, and I found myself sitting next to Harry, whilst one of Ron's numerous brothers (not Fred or George, a much less attractive one) began bombarding Harry with talk about Crouch, of all people.

At first I felt so pleased with myself I was content to let Moody, (sitting on my other side wearing some ghastly antique robes he had probably borrowed from Filch), begin a long rant against the leniency with which criminals were treated nowadays, and how it would never have happened whilst he was an auror. Old people can be so gabby.

But after a while, I began to feel slightly uneasy. Surely Harry should be talking to me, instead of watching Hermione and Krum chatting away? He was barely looking at me. I racked my brain for something witty to say, but for the first time in my life could think of nothing. I felt suddenly cold.

I couldn't eat much. I just sat there, sipping my drink, and wondering what on earth I could do. The time slid away, and the meal finished. It was time for us to star the dancing with the rest of the champions. This was surely my chance, I told myself firmly, standing up and straightening my robes. I jolted Harry sharply out of some kind of reverie, and he stood up to follow me.

As we moved into the centre of the hall, the least hairy of the weird sisters (they used to be my favourite group, but I can't bring myself to listen to them much any more) started singing to a wailing bagpipe accompaniment. It was a strange tune to pick for the opening dance, I thought at the time. Afterwards I considered it slightly more appropriate. The words stick in my mind even now, when I would love above all things to forget them:

There is no sense in loving you

My love you do not see,

The joy, the pain of watching you

Is all that's left to me

There is no way

There is no chance

But stay my love

For one last dance

There is no sense in loving you

You do not care at all

Though I would perish at your feet

Or follow at your call

There is no way

There is no chance

But stay my love

For one last dance

"Trite, of course, but it sticks in your memory," I remember someone murmuring, as the song finished. It was probably Hermione. I agreed with her.

He clearly didn't have a clue about dancing, but I knew enough about it for both of us. He didn't seem to mind me steering.

I thought this afterwards, of course. At the time, I just mused how attractive it was, his air of gentle uncertainty, as we swayed the room in each other's arms, surrounded by a host of other couples, dancing with varying degrees of success.

I longed for him to look at me, to smile, to make some nervous comment that would show he was thinking of me, wondering what I was feeling. But the song wore on, and he said nothing.

He just stared over my shoulder, making the occasional polite noise as I spoke as interestingly as I knew how. Curiously I manoeuvred us into turning round, so that I could see what he had been staring at. It was Cho, dancing with Cedric and looking dreamily happy. Cow.

But my normal reaction to Cho was tempered by a new realisation: Harry really loved her.

I'd seen his eyes, as Cho leaned her head on Cedric's shoulder, and I recognised the look I saw there. It was the same expression I'd glimpsed in Ron's eyes for an instant, when he'd caught sight of Hermione, the same way Cedric looked at Cho. And if I'm honest, probably the way I gazed at Harry, when he wasn't even aware of it.

I didn't want to believe it. It was the mental equivalent of gripping a red-hot poker.

I wasn't prepared to find him in love with her. And yet at the same time, it seemed to make perfect sense.

The song was in its death throes, and inwardly I struggled with myself. It took all of my pride not to start crying there and then, or to fling myself on Harry and make him love me. Or to fling myself on Cho, and make a hole in her.

But I didn't. Something that still surprises me, even a year on. I've always been a bit spoiled, really, with money, clothes, make-up... everything I could possibly want, and a wonderful family to go with them. I'd always thought that under pressure I'd just crack up, and turn to someone else for support. My role was to provide the glamour, the looks, the light conversation, not the moral strength. But I didn't crack up. I just carried on dancing, staring past Harry now, looking up at the ceiling to force back tears. And so I lasted, until the music came to an end.

Then I told myself: one last try. I had little enough to loose.

"Let's sit down, shall we?" Harry said, as the song ended and everyone applauded enthusiastically.

"Oh - but - this is a really good one!" I said desperately, as a more cheerful tune began. I had a sudden feeling that if we stopped dancing I would have lost him forever.

"No, I don't like it," he said, leading me over to where Ron and Padma were sitting. I barely saw them. The hall seemed suddenly blurred, as if it were a confused dream. Then I found myself sitting in silence with the other three, watching Ron and Harry stare at the girls they'd have preferred to take to the dance instead of Padma and me. Beneath my despair I felt a twinge of anger. We're Padma and Parvati, after all. You can't just ignore us as if we were anyone.

My anger came in useful; it stopped me from breaking down in the middle of the crowd, and forced me not to let anyone know what I was feeling.

An immense bitterness welled up inside me. So this was what I had wasted my mother's heirloom on: a chance to sit in silence next to the boy I loved and watched him stare despairingly at another girl. I longed to get away from the curious, merciless eyes, to retreat somewhere quiet and cry, until all my grief was spent.

I sat impatiently in my seat, wondering when the ball would be over, and I could retreat to my dormitory, wondering if Harry would even now at the eleventh hour give me even the tiniest piece of attention, and miraculously change the evening into a fantasy. He didn't. He just sat there, looking as miserable as I felt.

Suddenly I became aware of a Beauxbatons boy approaching our table. He was very good looking, in a dark, sophisticated, French kind of way, but I was too depressed to give him the attention he would have normally attracted.

I realised distractedly that he was asking me to dance.

I don't specifically remember asking Harry, and hearing his vague answer, but I know this must have happened, because then I was flouncing off onto the dance floor again, my throat raw from unshed tears.

The Beauxbatons boy (I can't even remember his name now) was a good dancer, but I don't recollect much about that dance. For once even the music failed to move me. All I remember is walking across the floor, when the dance was over, and watching, longing for Harry to look up and wonder where I was. He didn't even lift his head.

I realised that it was possible to love without hope. I suppose I had been doing this for a while without even realising it. I had completely deceived myself. For the first time in my life I felt like a fool.

I wish I could have known then that this was not the end, that I was only beginning my life, and that I could be strong, far stronger than anyone apart from my family would have guessed.

I wish I had a better memory of the Yule ball, a remembrance of cheerful eating and drinking, and dancing carefree under the stars of the vaulted ceiling. Instead, whenever I think of the ball, I am transported back to the corner of the great hall, talking with outward composure and inward despair, all the time longing for him to look up and see me. And again my heart cries desperately look at me, look at me. And again there is no answer.