Within my sights (within my grasp)
Remus sensed her, smelled her, felt her before he ever laid eyes on her. And by the analyzing look in her eyes (analyzing because he didn’t feel judged or sized up, he felt as though he were being put down into a database, another document slipped into a folder), she too had taken note of his presence.
Around them, the world became a blur and suddenly Sirius’s chatter, James’s loud laughter, and Peter’s little quips no longer interested him as much as they did a moment ago. Her presence was loud. Not loud in the way James and Sirius’s was. It was a silent, deadly sort of confidence. Practiced yet natural was the straightness of her back, the neatness of her clothes, the tidiness of her hair, not a thing out of its place.
Someone who attracted attention to her without having to put in the effort.
He took his time observing her, clenching and relaxing his sweaty palms as he attempted to regain the oxygen he had lost to the alarms that had blared in his mind.
She was so astoundingly pale that Sirius looked like he had been tanning all summer in comparison, but, somehow, she managed to not look sickly or frail for it. (She was absent of color, a white canvas to brush paint onto with a careful hand, no red to her cheeks, no life. He had something she didn’t, but she didn’t have something he did. Scars.)
Her eyes were big, black pools, crowned by long dark lashes that must brush against her cheeks with every blink, that hungrily consumed him, taking every detail of his person and magnifying it. All curious and prodding, like a cat nudging the dead mouse before it– not hungry enough to eat it but still wondering.
Her hair a lovely shade of blonde that was not quite gold, not quite yellow, and not quite the color of hay, but something softer and something in between and something that was all of them at once; it swayed with even the slightest breaths, the pin straight strands shining with health that Remus’s condition had long stripped him of, with the constant frizziness to his short, brunette locks that refused to go away no matter what product he used nor his constant hair brushing.
And all of her features were perfectly placed, perfectly symmetrical, and perfectly perfect. Heart-shaped, blood-red lips, straight and neat brows, button nose, and Remus knew if she turned, her jawline would be so sharp it could cut through metal. So pretty that Remus could see how anyone could become taken with her.
It seemed she was quicker in her search than he was because it didn’t take quite as long for her to stop and send him a smile, close-lipped and charming but she didn't turn her head away, eyes unblinking as they bore through him. He would be tripping over his feet trying to withstand the pressure of her stare if he were anyone else, if he had the choice of being anything but aware. But he doesn’t. So all he feels is trepidation.
He isn’t scared, he doesn’t yet have a reason to be, all she is- is here and that’s a problem in itself because the big fat dog that is his hind mind won’t shut up. (There’s a myth, one that says they’re supposed to hate each other. Remus thought there had been no real basis for that. Now, he is not so sure.)
It is her perfection that makes her terrifying. She is placid, porcelain, like a doll, all fragile looking and decorated with pretty little lace. But Remus knows of what lies past that close-lipped smile.
Remus is the one to break eye contact first, turning his head back towards his friends. However, her stare stays persistently there for a moment. Two. Then it’s gone. It’s only the first day of third year. She may not even be in the same classes as him.
(He doesn’t even know her name, but he is now terribly aware of her, and he can’t help but feel that now that she’s within his sights, she’s never leaving.)