Reflecting Her Smile in My Cup of Tea

REFLECTING HER SMILE IN MY CUP OF TEA

I feel lonely among this people; they are too different from me.

My eyes inspect everything, but my hands never crave to touch them.

I feel so odd, invisible, sometimes, just as if I were transparent. But I am not transparent; there is more life in me than in most of these people.
They simply can't look at me.
They look at my name, at my family, at my Quidditch scores, and at my money. If they are girls, they glance at something else too. Not that I am displeased: I am not prude.

But... well, no, I do not want to feel alone, I do not want to taste that loneliness. Again.

In that dusty room, I was coming closer to her in slow motion.
I built my tortuous path among the shelves, slowly, having all the ease to observe her, without alerting her. I can stay quiet, not moving anything, the sand in a sand-glass flowing quicker than my heart beat.
An instinctual behaviour, I am aware: I am a natural predator, my eyes can always spot a prey. I was calculating her reactions.

No real surprise that I was sorted in Slytherin.

Ambition and cunning are nothing without patient observation.
Being able to look inside yourself is a good thing.
Being able to look at some abstract ideal, well, it´s not exactly the best thing for me, but I can appreciate it.
But being able to look at other people is basic for survival.

Eyes of predators are different, even in nature, didn't you notice?

People often don't understand the subtle difference between an egoist and someone self-centred, or, what is worst, a solipsist.
Anyway, I am a Slytherin; a damned good Slytherin by the way.
Maybe an egoist; I have always considered a portion of egoism as necessary for a healthy life. Taking care of yourself is a duty, not a right.
Surely I am not self-centred: I know the world will not bow to my wishes. I learned it, and I had a good teacher too.
I know the world is definitely different from how I would like it, and I am a damned good observer too.

She has a sharp tongue, sometimes, I owe her this, nothing more. It´s funny to see her snap so easily, pulling the right string. Predictable little girl.

Then, she surprised me: I could see her reflecting quietly in a darker window pane, a glimpse of rapture, a hint of pride, a mix of bookish insecurity and simple joy. The sun in the rain.
Enchanted, I suddenly imagined her in a safest place, not willing this image at all. I'd like to see her smile reflecting in my cup of tea. Maybe.

I could read her gestures; I was browsing her like she was a book, wondering how her integral version, the integral version of her thoughts, might be. Could she ever spare a breath for her usual silliness and let me understand her? I highly doubt it.

She is waiting. Whom is she waiting for? Do I really need to ask? For... "him", of course, who else?

"He" might have many names... well, ought I bet, I'd be uncertain between two names. She is leading such a secluded life style... But, whatever name he might have been presented at birth, he surely has one name for her. Love maybe. Surely not lover: whoever he might be, "he" is surely the boy who cannot really see her as herself.
An usual story, as old as the world. I danced on this tune myself, and somehow I am still dancing, so I can tell: a sick person can always spot the symptoms of another one being consumed with the same illness.

But.. can we really blame him? She is so good to hide herself. Behind her lifted hands, her books, her parchments, and the dust of this place. What a waste. Maybe.

I noticed she is always supporting "him" and his best friend, and never complaining: the trouble is she never understands what's going on.
He gives her a bit of his attention, then leaves her alone. He can take her and let her go, when and how he likes. He neither needs to whisper the word love nor give her a bit of tenderness.

Friendship. I am sure she is quenching her thirst with that nice word.

He can really hurt her deeply. She simply gave him power and weapon. Maybe he doesn´t know it.

Without "him" she doesn´t dare go out, take a stroll, or buy a damned newspaper. I can tell it easily: she is staying here, in the dark, while she could be somewhere else for once, having fun.
Maybe she likes staying here. Maybe.
But not now, not after that glimpse in her peculiar mirror.
It suits her so well, her mirror. Some girls have tiny mirrors in their bags for a quick glance, looking for flaws. Other girls like long mirrors, to smile to themselves, glowing with pride.
She has a window of the Library as her personal mirror. Imperfect.

I would bet on her loneliness with goblins.

Without "him", she cant even breathe. Maybe.

I could sneer for this strange punishment, because I really don't like her. She is the monotony of the right answers. She is a continuous noise, never surrendering to the pleasure of silence, to the taste of a different speed.

No surprise she was sorted in Gryffindor.

But... well, somehow, I simply do not want her to feel alone.
I do not want her to taste that loneliness.

Not now, at least.