13Ahaha! The summary I wrote for this story makes me laugh so much...oh dear. Glad it hasn't put you off reading this fic!
This, dear readers, is the product of two hours' (what? I'm a very slow writer, it takes me forever to make a oneshot) typing and backspacing and retyping, one mug of coffee (milky, not black - I actually despise black coffee), a hopeless crush I've had on someone for two years who probably doesn't even know I exist, various msn convos about Damien Rice, Vincent the dog from Lost, and mittens. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own anything HP-related, Damien Rice, Vincent the dog from Lost (don't worry - this story doesn't involve any of those two, it's...kinda random), Mark, etc. HOWEVER I do own a pair of mittens. :wiggles fingers in mittens: And I can actually type in them. Which is pretty good.
Black Coffee
She was a girl of routine.
Every morning it would be the same. She would sit at her house table, twirling a strand of dark hair around her finger and sipping a mug of strong black coffee. She needed it. She could not go a day without the sharp bitterness to wake her up.
6.55. She would always be the first to arrive, and she would watch like a ghost as the Hall gradually filled around her with noisy students, isolated from them by her own introversion.
7.30. The post owls would come, dropping parchment envelopes and crumpled newspapers into people's hands, causing the incessant chatter to become louder. And still she would sit silently, knowing that no owl would deliver anything to her. She would find no reason to feel upset or left out. This was how she had been her whole life, and she knew that she would always be this way. She almost enjoyed it.
7.37. By now she would be on her second mug of coffee. She would hold the cup in her hands, letting her fingers be warmed by the heat radiating out from the hot drink and breathing in its rich smell. She would gently swirl the mug, always twice clockwise, and watch the smooth dark brown liquid lap at the sides of the cup. Then she would place the mug down onto the table, and wait.
And then he would walk in.
7.38. She would watch the doors to the Hall every morning, just to see him come in. Just to feel the mood in the air shift slightly as he stood in the doorway. To feel the light brush of his robes on her skin as he strode past to sit at his table. To breathe in the scent lingering in the air after him; the faint smell of roses and old parchment.
He would be like her black coffee. An addiction. Nobody liked him, he was far too dark for most people – and yet, somehow, they needed him. They needed his powerful, commanding presence, his quiet but authoritative voice. And she needed him and she knew it. But she did not know why. She was infatuated with him. She could not go a day without seeing him, wanting to be near him, wanting his smell, his touch, wanting to feel his eyes on her. Wanting him to notice her.
And one morning he did look at her. Their eyes connected for just that brief moment and everything else faded away into the background. The sound of excited chatter and stools clattering on the stone floor became muffled, and the students around her melted into a sea of black and grey. Her breath hitched in her throat, and she found herself unable to look away. His gaze, dark and intense, rested on her and held her captivated.
He looked at her curiously, as if he had never seen her before. He probably hadn't seen her before, as she was the type of person who blended into the background and went unnoticed by most people. Sympathy flitted across his face for less than a second, and then he looked away, breaking the connection and her heart.
She sighed as he walked past, no longer looking at her, and he sat down at his table. She watched silently as he talked with some girl who was always hanging around him…Black, her name was…and she felt a stab of jealousy in her heart. Never before now had she wished to have friends, wished that she could have someone, anyone, to talk to. But she had isolated herself, made herself a recluse. And now, as she looked around her and took in for the first time the happy smiles on people's faces as they talked to each other, as they laughed and joked, she felt incredibly…alone.
And she finally admitted to herself that he would never notice her in the way that she wanted him to, that it was pointless to keep the hope alive. After all, it was just simple infatuation. Obsession. Addiction. Surely she would break out of it soon. But until then…
7.45. She rose from the table and walked to the huge oak doors, stealing one last glance at him as she passed the table where he sat. It was back to the normal routine again. That familiar sinking feeling she got when she would look at him, trying to give him a small smile, but was never noticed. And so she walked out of the Hall, staring down at the floor, leaving her now cold cup of coffee behind her on the table.
If you were very confused about who this character's obsessing over...I don't quite know myself. I like to think that it's a lesser-known Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff's view on Tom Riddle. The Ravenclaw/Hufflepuff is a girl, obviously. If you want it to be about TR, imagine that it's set when he's in his fifth or sixth year, and that said Ravenpuff is in her fourth year.
And no, the Ravenpuff is not a self-insert.
Although...hm. I suppose it could be a self-insert...but one who attends a magic school, is a fan of routine (bleeuurgh), is definitely much more reclusive (awh) and likes black coffee. So it's a much altered s-i. Ah well.
And I did warn you that it was incredibly random. Well done for getting to the end. :applauds brave reader:
Didya like all the coffeeTR (or whoever you want it to be) analogies? They make me laugh...but I suppose everything makes me laugh.
Please leave me a review - it'll make me smile! :D Don't you like seeing me smile? Awh. Well, please review, anyway.
Ta-ta!
QoB