disclaimer: The Harry Potter Series is not epicaricacy's
i. Ashes, Ashes
"Many, many years ago in a sad, faraway land, there was an enormous mountain made of rough, black stone. At sunset, on top of that mountain, a magic rose blossomed every night that made whoever plucked it immortal. But no one dared go near it because its thorns were full of poison. Men talked amongst themselves about their fear of death, and pain, but never about the promise of eternal life. And every day, the rose wilted, unable to bequeath its gift to anyone... forgotten and lost at the top of that cold, dark mountain, forever alone, until the end of time."
--Ofelia, El Laberinto Del Fauno
I found it easier not to care. About people, about life, about school, about love, about everything and about nothing. It was better for me just to drown myself in books, hiding behind the thick walls of the Hogwarts library. I loved it here…with its smell of parchment and old books and yellowing pages, with its silence that was not present anywhere else in the castle, with its absence of people that actually had lives.
I found it easier to spend my days reading and reading and reading. Anything. Nothing. Sometimes, I would even just glance at a piece of paper, reading invisible words and tracing them with my index finger. Sometimes, teachers would watch me read, chuckling about how much my mother and I were alike. And sometimes, I'd smile at them, telling them that reading was my favorite pastime.
But all the freakin' time, I just didn't care. Didn't care what they thought or about the smiles I shot at them (like bullets) or about how I was going to waste my life by drowning in knowledge.
It was easier that way. I am a Weasley, after all, and Weasleys -- being the cowards we know we are deep, deep, deep down (or maybe not that far down)—always take the easy way out.