Angeline, Angeline

Her name was Amelia. Her friends were Julianna, Opal, and Mary. 

Julianna was the blonde girl, Opal curly-headed akin to Amelia, and Mary with her hair cut quite short, almost pixie. With how magical this school is, every time I look at her I'm half-expecting for her to sprout wings or sprinkle all of us with pixie dust.

They are not kind and they are not amiable, but they are enough. I can tell that they aren't the people I want to stay with throughout the rest of my three remaining years at Hogwarts, but they are a fine start. 

Atticus, however, follows me around like he is a pet dog and I am holding his leash. I don't like this, especially with how the girls keep commenting on it:

"Oh, he's obsessed with you! Turn your head right now--yes, now--look how he's staring, see how he looks away when you notice?" Amelia giggles, supposedly the leader of their group, if it were to have one. "Bet he's, like, in love."

Julianna joins in on the fun. "If only he had a better complexion."

"Bloody hell, he needs to wash his face," Mary says, her expression disgusted. 

I consider walking away from them and sitting beside the boy who, while most likely would make a good friend, would not be the one sleeping in the same room as me every single night, the one I am forced to tolerate due to their constant presence.

His skin is pockmarked, but it's not a bad look. When I study the girls, I find that they, too, have scars and dots, little imperfections that make up their personalities. 

Amelia has a mole on the lower left side of her face, above her mouth, similar to Marilyn Monroe yet much less elegant. Julianna has a bump in her hair, a spot she missed with the straightener, right on the back of her head. Opal's is her hazy green eyes, how they fade to gray, and her pale lashes and eyebrows, almost invisible against tan skin. Mary has freckles, almost too many of them (if that could even be possible,) covering her face and winding down to her shoulders. 

I catch a glance of myself in a windowpane, and find that I am not perfect, either. My haircut is choppy, my freckles are like Mary's yet more subtle, and I have small acne scars on my forehead and chin, almost invisible yet if you really look, still there.

I do not leave the girls for him. 

Well, at least until later that night. 

We are playing a game, something that Julianna calls a tradition yet no one else seems to know. It is a card game, and exceedingly complicated, to the point where half of the group is already dozing off and only Opal is truly interested. 

Atticus is sitting beside me. Occasionally his shoulder brushes me and I start, thinking it is a bug or something of the sort, and when I look over he is grinning as if he has pulled some elaborate prank. As time passes, I begin to resent him for it, and my rolled eyes turn into harsh glares. 

He nudges my shoulder once more as Julianna is dealing the cards, counting exactly seventeen to each deck. I watch the pile in front of me grow, ignoring him. 

This time he is persistent, though, and the common room is loud enough for me to be able to turn and look at him.

"What?" I whisper, my tone nothing short of annoyed. 

"Wanna take a walk?"

"Not with you." I don't mean it. He knows that.

"Bet you don't wanna stay here."

He is right, and God, does he know it. That smirk tells all. 

"Fine," I mutter, and stand casually, as if I am just going off to have a wee, nothing more. Beside me Atticus stands as well, and as I weave my way around people's legs and the coffee table, he follows.

Amelia's gaze follows as well, although it notably stays on me, except for a quick glance towards him, accompanied by a raise of her eyebrows. Obsessed, she mouths, the word clear with the exaggeration of her lips.

I look away. I can't deal with her right now, if I ever could. 

The Slytherin common room is a very dreary place, and certainly not where I thought I would end up. It is in the dungeon, and therefore dark, and reeking with both the scent of must and the obvious perfume girls have sprayed in a futile attempt to cover it. 

Atticus pushes open the door to the main hallways, leaving the dungeon, and I take a breath of fresh air--although I'm not sure how fresh it can be, smelling more of pumpkin spice than pine trees. 

He grins at me, that signature smile. I return it, but with nowhere near the same level of enthusiasm. 

"How're you liking it here so far?" he asks. 

"It's alright," I say, very carefully. 

He gives me a look, and it is very meaningful, although I'm not quite sure what that meaning could be. "So you're hanging out with Amelia's group now, huh?"

I blink. "Oh, I suppose so. I don't know, they're nice. Kind of took me under their wing, I guess."

He scoffs. "'Their' wing? I know it's all Amelia. She pretends she's the leader of that whole lot, likes to think she's better than the rest of us."

I raise my eyebrows. "You really hate her."

He looks away, so I can't see his face, can't decipher his expression. "Not like she likes me that much, either."

"Oh, that whole group doesn't like you much, but don't worry, it's not personal."

He turns to look at me, stopping in his tracks. "Seriously? Me and Opal have been close since, like, my second day here."

I shrug. "Well, I don't know about Opal, she seems nice enough. But didn't we agree that when talking about 'them,' we meant Amelia? I mean, I can't argue that she is the mastermind of that group."

"Just master, no mind."

"Sure, if you say so."

He huffs, looking down at the ground, his demeanor somewhat annoyed. "I've never met a girl like you before."

"What do you mean?"

"You're just... so direct. Like you don't care at all."

"I mean, I do care. I'm human."

He takes a long look at my face. "Don't turn into the classic Slytherin, Lexa. If you can manage it, 'least. Half of us have got the same boring trope of 'uncaring, annoyed, mean,' and it's just overdone at this point."

"I'm not going to turn into Amelia."

"I'm not worried about you turning into Amelia. Don't think anyone could ever replicate that exact brand of evil."

He smirks, and I give him a small smile back. 

"I wanna get to know you, though. You're interesting. I feel like you've got some backstory to you. I've known everyone else here for years, there's nothing more to figure out. But you... you're different."

I look him in the eyes, straight in those bright green eyes. "You're not the only one who feels that way, you know."

He snorts. "Trust me, I know."

I look away, my gaze focusing instead on a brazier mounted high on the wall, the fire inside lit and seemingly perfectly maintained. "I'm not unique. I'm not interesting. There is nothing about me to figure out, nothing you would find enticing."

He frowns. "What? Everyone's got stories, something that makes up who they are. You can't've just existed these past, what is it, fifteen years?"

I say nothing. Avoidance is an art. 

"Look, I saw the way everyone else was looking at you," he says, after a moment, "they're all trying to figure you out, too. Everyone wants to know why you came here so late, why we've never seen or heard of you before. There's plenty of theories." He pauses, but just for a moment. "And I've been through that too, y'know? There was tons of people speculating 'bout me two years ago. But they let it go eventually. Now everyone knows me, and I know them, it goes both ways."

I stay silent for a moment longer, let the suspense build, before I speak. "I can't tell you, okay?"

He perks up, a child being told they cannot have something that now wants it even more. "Why not?"

I give him a look, half disciplinary and half annoyed. "I can't tell you that, either."

"Oh, so she's mysterious," he says with a grin. "I like that."

I glare at him. "I am not going to tell you. Drop it."

"Just tell me where you're from, and I'll stop asking. That's it."

"America," I say, completely serious.

Atticus gives me a look. "You don't have an accent."

"You don't know that, maybe I have a faux British one."

"Okay, then show."

I shake my head. "Fine, you've caught me. I'm actually from Antarctica."

He rolls his eyes. "Lexa, please."

"The moon," I say sarcastically. "Australia. Mars."

"Please just be serious, for once. It can't hurt, can't it?"

I take a deep breath. "Just drop it, Atticus."

I have never said his name aloud before. We are both silent for a long moment, but it is not for that reason. 

"What about you, then? What's your story? And don't you dare say that you will tell me yours when I tell you mine," I say eventually, leaning against the cold stone wall. 

He looks at me for a long moment before finally, he speaks. "It's nothing much, really. Transferred from Ilvermorny 'cause my pa got a job here."

"You're American?" I look over at him. He nods. 

"You don't have an accent."

"Oh, c'mon, don't steal my lines," he teases, but a wide grin spreads across his face, and he leans his head back against the wall of the dungeon. 

We don't speak for a short time, but it isn't in any way uncomfortable. Nor is it comfortable, sitting together in silence; instead something in-between, the kind of moment where it can be known that there are secrets being kept on both sides of the conversation, secrets that do not need to be shared. 

He will ask again, I know. I will need to spend some time thinking up a good backstory, a good lie. 

"We should probably get back," he says, hesitantly, as if he doesn't really want to. 

"Yes, probably," I agree, the words unsaid between us innumerable. 

"Amelia will be wondering where you've gone."

"She'll be wondering about you, too."

He scoffs. "Not in the same way."

My silence counts as an agreement. 

"What's she said about me? Amelia, I mean."

I raise my eyebrows. "You don't want to know." It doesn't mean I won't tell him, though, if he does ask. 

"I think I do."

I hesitate, and then speak. "A few things. They don't like your--your face, I'm pretty sure."

"My face? What's wrong with my face?" he interrupts, rightfully annoyed. I simply shrug, unwilling to go into more detail, to delve deep into the many insults fired that would surely shoot him down and knock his confidence to the floor. 

"Amelia was also saying you were obsessed with me, but she has been saying the same phrase for half of the guys we've spoken to, so I don't know about that one."

His face is slightly red; it's warm down here. 

"I'm not obsessed with you, obviously. She's just trying to make me look bad, I bet."

I glance over at him, eyebrows raised. "Well, I know that."

A pause.

"Going back to the topic about how you hate her," I say. "Did you two date, or something? I mean... she had to have done something to you, or vice versa, for that level of hatred."

"God no," he says, too quickly to be fully believable. "No, I'd never date her, and I'd bet my life she feels the same way."

The same look on his face, the same agitation, the same flush. I am no detective, no psychologist, but I know people, and I am not afraid to say what I mean. 

"So, you like her, then."

He looks over at me, shocked. "Where'd'ya get that from? No, I do not!"

I can't decide whether to laugh or to frown, instead choosing an option somewhere in-between, half a smile that could be interpreted as either. 

He shakes his head, smiling as well. "You're insufferable."

"Oh, but don't you like it when girls are fiery, mysterious?"

His smile forms into a grin; my teasing was successful. 

"True."

Footsteps, moving down the hallway towards us, breaks me out of my stupor and I look up, as if whoever it is is already in sight. Their shoes clack on the stone floors, and I push away from the wall, brushing off the back of my skirt. 

"We really should get back," I say, truthfully. Atticus nods, his expression resigned, and stands as well, mirroring me. 

The group rounds the corner: it is three girls I do not recognize, probably younger. They look at me and giggle, whispering to themselves, and then look at Atticus and giggle harder.

I shake my head, once they are gone. "They're off to spread some gossip, I suppose."

He begins to walk back to the common room, and quickly, I follow. "Oh, let them talk."

I don't answer, don't clarify that there are many reasons I may not want rumors about me beyond the simple one of discomfort. 

He doesn't understand, and there is no way for me to show him how to, to teach him a skill he may possibly never learn. 

We reenter the common room, and although it hasn't been that much time at all, already the crowd has mainly dispersed, leaving only a few lone fifth-years chatting with each other. Amelia, of course, looks up, wiggling her eyebrows at me. 

I look away, but as I walk back to our shared room, I take a quick glance at her, and the girl winks, really does, as if there is a secret shared between us now, something we will whisper to each other late at night, during a game of truth-or-dare. As if we are best friends in the whole entire world, as if she wants to be. 

The feeling is not reciprocated. I close the bedroom door behind me with a soft thud.