The hardest part is sitting right next to him in class.
If I thought Transfiguration was bad before, now it's downright intelorable.
I never wanted to know this much about him. I certainly don't like that he's got me wondering what else he might be hiding. And I definitely hate this little voice inside my head that points out what an achievement it is to be an animagus by the age of seventeen.
He's suddenly a mystery, and I like mysteries. I just don't want to like Sirius Black.
I look up from my books surprised.
McGonagall has us take notes today. Which basically means that we don't have to interact with each other, unless we want to.
And I thought that we both didn't.
“Yes?” I say uncertainly.
“Can I ask you something?”
He looks at me and there's something else besides curiosity in his eyes.
“Depends on what it is,” I tell him warily.
He nods briefly and then turns back to his notes, pretending to read them.
“Do you look the way you were born or the way you want to look?” he asks, without looking at me.
I didn't expect that question and I'm not sure how to respond.
I don't want to lie, but the truth in this case could be just as misleading.
The truth is I've only ever made one permanent change to my appearance and that was right after my mother died. I didn't feel the same person after her death, so I could see no reason why I should look the same either. I changed my appearance and I changed my name, and when I was done they both reflected my new personality. They both were grey.
But of course I can't tell him that. I can only confirm that I wasn't born like this. Which will probably lead to him thinking I used to look like a troll.
Funny how something that's true can make you reach a conclusion that's false.
I decide to go with the truth anyway.
“I look the way I want to look.”
I go back to taking notes without waiting for his reaction.
Not that there is one. He's turned his attention back to Professor McGonagall, who is saying something I should probably be listening to too.
A few minutes of silence pass and they're enough for me to think that our conversation is over.
But apparently not.
“What now?” I snap, whipping around again.
“Nothing. It's just...,” he trails off.
Then he turns to face the front of the classroom again, so I can only see his profile.
“It'd be nice to see the real you sometime...,” he murmurs.
Whether he's talking to himself or to me is unclear.
We both hear it. We both pretend he didn't say it.
If I could say something in return, it would be that he's seen more of my real self than most people in my life have.
Except that everybody else seems to think they know who I am.
He knows better.
A/N: Please review. It's the only reward I get from writing this :)
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