He Loves Me

The weather's awful today, rain streaming from the sky in silver sheets and turning the ground from dry soil clothed in green to drenched mud with one or two green things shooting from it. But this is perfect for me, to sit by the lake today on a rock and stare outward, because nobody else wants to be out here. Everybody else is inside, enjoying their weekend while it lasts. Oh, look, a flower. A lone survivor of the appalling weather this autumn has given us. Picking it, I examine it briefly before picking off a petal and beginning to play a muggle game my cousin used to play all the time.

{He loves me.}

Yeah, right, I wish. And I do. I really do. It's not like he's very nice or anything. I mean, he hates me and my friends - who, most probably, won't have noticed my disappearance. He is nice-looking though. His hair and his eyes and his skin, everything about him seems pale in some way. I smile weakly, looking down at the flower in my hand and noticing that it's the exact same colour as his hair. I pick off another petal, suddenly feeling slightly weaker.

{He loves me not.}

I really don't know what I'd do if he rejected me, which is why I've never asked. I mean, mister straight-as-a-Firebolt isn't about to even look twice at a bespectacled twit like me, even if he were to look twice at a member of the same gender. The chances of which, I may add, are zero to nothing. I frown a bit, picturing his expression when he comes to know of the potion I took before and its effects, and raise my hand - this is getting considerably harder - to pluck off another petal.

{He loves me.}

Ha fricken ha. He does not. I glare at the flower in my hand, with only two petals left on it, and mentally curse at it for deluding me with fake promises of love on his part. My eyes - now half-lidded, as it's become rather hard to keep them open - fill halfway with tears at the realisation that I made a stupid decision in taking that potion, and now there's no going back. All thoughts are becoming hazy as I lazily reach over and grab another petal, yanking it off.

{He loves me not.}

Of course he doesn't. Thank you, you stupid flower, for telling the truth. Feeling weary now, I blink at the flower in my hand, realising that it still has a petal on it. I can't find the strength to glare at it, or even mentally curse at it, because my strength is slipping from me like a muddy bank from the grasp of a drowning child. As I raise my hand tiredly, ready to pick the last petal, I hear his voice behind me. He shouts my name, and I tear away the last petal, leaving my flower naked, and the potion robs me of the last of my strength. I fall forward, vaguely noticing that I've hit the water, before everything goes black.

{He loves me...}