dove
LOVE COULD BE LABELED POISON AND WE'D DRINK IT ANYWAYS.
You look like snow, he says to her, and she can feel the heat as it flushes to her cheeks, and had she been made of real snow the flakes would have melted. She was not accustomed to others noticing anything about her, or if they did, they never said anything. It wasn’t surprising that she was often pushed to the wayside in favor of her twin brother. Draco was strikingly beautiful, and with all the confidence of both their parents to go with it. He had inherited nearly everything about them, where Dove was the oddity in their family; she was quiet and shy, nearly to a fault.
Such as now, when this boy in front of her has already proven that she didn’t have a reason to be afraid, and yet she still struggles to meet his eyes. Through the long strands of her silver forelock she steals fleeting glances at him, admiring the kind way he smiled at her and doing her best to return it with one of her own. “No,” she answers him softly with a shake of her head. “I wish it would, though,” she says a little wistfully, remembering the boy she had met in the snowstorm in the meadow. She liked the quiet that the snow brought, the way it wrapped everything in a muted kind of serenity – when everything seemed just as soft as she is.
“Saphris,” she repeats his name with a murmur, her navy-blue eyes timidly resting on his face. She hesitates as she looks again at his mane, again noticing the way it sometimes sparked. “You have lightning in your hair,” she says with admiration, because something about lightning seemed so fierce, wild, and entirely unpredictable – everything she wasn’t. “How did it get there?”
Such as now, when this boy in front of her has already proven that she didn’t have a reason to be afraid, and yet she still struggles to meet his eyes. Through the long strands of her silver forelock she steals fleeting glances at him, admiring the kind way he smiled at her and doing her best to return it with one of her own. “No,” she answers him softly with a shake of her head. “I wish it would, though,” she says a little wistfully, remembering the boy she had met in the snowstorm in the meadow. She liked the quiet that the snow brought, the way it wrapped everything in a muted kind of serenity – when everything seemed just as soft as she is.
“Saphris,” she repeats his name with a murmur, her navy-blue eyes timidly resting on his face. She hesitates as she looks again at his mane, again noticing the way it sometimes sparked. “You have lightning in your hair,” she says with admiration, because something about lightning seemed so fierce, wild, and entirely unpredictable – everything she wasn’t. “How did it get there?”
@[Saphris]