One must be completely determined to reach one’s destination and move without haste, but with deliberation.
She moves her glass to her lips and I can see his eyes follow her from the seat next to her, his gaze firmly stuck on her face, on her bushy hair and her bright brown eyes. She smiles gratefully at my compliments. She blushes furiously at my congratulations. Her hair crackles with the spark of intelligence and fire that I used to possess and you used to marvel at.
Determination. Destination. Deliberation.
The boy sitting across from her, with ginger hair and a long nose, growls and scowls at me as if I have done something wrong. His eyebrow has yet to be fixed and it looks odd: the bare skin a brilliant white against the orange of his freckles. She, of course, is intact – not a hair missing - a perfect apparation: no vomiting, no splinching, no calls to the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, and a gloriously satisfying cracking sound as she disappeared into the unknown.
At first, I thought his disgruntlement and desolation was merely jealously and resentment – that he begrudgingly accepted she was better than him, that he was moping and moaning about failing his test - but I was wrong, obviously. The look in his eyes tells all, and I can’t help but hope for him.
He mutters something darkly and she turns to scold him – but I can see the prick of her lips into a slight smile, the brightness of her eyes as she looks at him and the softening of his features as he looks back. Their banter is easy, effortless and although the other students at the table roll their eyes and begin separate conversations, they hope for them too.
I take another sip of my drink, trying to avoid the dark looks from the other students, and watch their interaction. She even reaches out her hand to touch the bald patch of skin above his eye but he blushes, knocking her hand away and shuffles awkwardly in his seat. Her face falls a little. Someone calls her name and she turns away to talk to them, another beaming smile etched over her features – and he goes back to his staring, the colour rushing from his cheeks as he returns to his usual pursuit.
With just a little determination, he would get there. I feel like pinching his cheek and ruffling his hair as an old and wise grandfather would do. Go get her, son. The destination is obvious. He stares at it everyday, even now. It will require deliberation: clearly the boy isn’t as intelligent as her, otherwise something would have been done by now, he’ll need to think about it and do it properly. With flowers. And chocolate. And a trip to that lovely little pink café you used to take me to.
Maybe he’d apparate better, maybe he’d pass his test, if she was his destination. No splinching, no half eyebrows. Devotion.