Chapter 1 : You. (Me).
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The image is perfection. What heart could go unmoved by such beauty?
The face is cold, proud. Grace distinguishes every casual movement; a pale hand reaching to adjust the flawless hair, chest rising and falling, beating out a steady and soothing rhythm. Aphrodite and Adonis smile down; this beauty is the gods’ blessing. There is no door that will go unopened, no face that will not smile upon seeing it. Life bursts at the seams with opportunity and hope, battling with the neat stitches which gave birth to it in the first place.
I am longing. My unworthy eyes feast greedily on the reflection, drinking in the sight. My fingers tingle with the idea that one day, I may be able to touch that face, hold that body in my arms. A fire sparks within me, flames of desire sweeping through my veins. My heart feeds it, unable to deny the faint hope which resides there.
This beauty is a curse. It invites false friends, attraction, misinformed devotion. People are powerless before it. They swarm to the beauty, drawn as bees to a dazzling flower, as magpies to a sparkling gem. Appearance counts for everything.
The beauty is a shell. It hides a soul which is battered, a heart which is bruised. The person beneath the exquisite exterior is unknown to those around it, because the skin remains unblemished, and nobody could believe that such loveliness can belie a damaged core. People wish only to know the magnificent mask, to bask in the light which such a form emits.
The face turns away; a cruel rejection. Haughty and closed, I cannot see what lies beneath, the emotions that stir within. I am cast away, in a boat without a sail, left to drift forever in the sea that is those eyes. I will drown in this denial, forever condemned to pine for something that I cannot have. My mind wanders to poems, to celebrations of unrequited love. They are a mocking ghost of what I feel. The fragments of my wounded heart pierce my chest, and a single tear rolls down my imperfect cheek.
Suddenly, the reflection disappears, the beauty fleeing from the image before its eyes. What is it worth if it results in a life of solitude, a granite heart untouched by all those around it?
The beauty, Victoire Weasley, detests the gift bestowed on her, which will cause her to be forever alone.
I, Teddy Lupin, gaze wistfully after the girl I love, who cannot see how brilliant she really is.