pajamas

Slytherin 5th Year Girls' Dormitory, Dinnertime, 13th February

A pert, but wide-ish, puppy-like nose wrinkled in dismay at recognition. The magazine smelt like nothing, but Neely's face was in uniform disagreement with what her eyes beheld: the same boring ad she'd seen in the last magazine. Really! Where were the fresh faces, the autumnal colors, the newness and innovation? She was bored out of her mind, and the insufferable recycling habits of her go-to glossies were not doing much to distract the little mouse.

A kick of her whiskered slippers against mattress, and Neely flung the magazine shut. It slid noiselessly across her fluffy duvet, its fate teetering momentarily on the bed's edge before falling onto the floor, into the crevice of tidied space between Neely's world and Jordyn's. It was kept scrupulously clean, because the first rule of chic was cleanliness. But also because Neely knew that what made Jordyn happy made the world happy, and that Jordyn was something of an obsessee when it came to neatness and organization. And really, who mightn't agree? Jordyn was sort of a genius-- in aesthetics and all other arenas.

And so the tiny blonde had taken precaution to neatly fold an emergency bath towel beneath the mountain of biscuits she'd thieved from the kitchens. Skipping dinner was a trendy thing to do at fifteen, but skipping food was not on Neely's to-do list. If ever a time had come when the Woolfolk heiress needed a sugar-spun shoulder to cry on (and gobble up), it was now.

Neely Woolfolk. Age Fifteen. Dateless.

On Valentine's.

It was the travesty of travesties! It was worse than mixing plaids and stripes (which was really not so bad, not since the Spring '06 collections, at least) or stepping out of one's common room looking like Helga Hufflepuff's famous horned toad. (Ew). Being single on the Big Day was social witch-icide. It was the FML and DNW of teenagehood.

Worse still, she had to watch Sasha in the halls. And pretend she wasn't watching him. Pretend she didn't see him at all. Pretend she didn't care that he'd changed his plans and come back to school, that she couldn't ask him about his family and what had happened, or ask him why he'd gone to Sophie's without telling her he would be there. When they had classes together, she coughed whenever anyone mentioned his name in conversation. She kept her eyes on the board, or the teacher. Did people have any idea how much work that was? Watching a teacher.

Counting her woes like sheep, one for each toe she painted in dark, mourner's purple, Neely at first did not hear it-- or, rather, rolled her eyes at the noise. The peck, peck, peck was akin to a first year practicing Transfiguration on the staircase with spools of yarn. So juvenile. So pesky. So not worth running to Morgan over. Neely was already in her pajamas and looming over her cookies, anyway.

But as it persisted, she titled an ear, that confused canine look taking hostage her koala cheeks and baby blues. The childish face was suddenly aglow with realization-- enlightenment!-- that she had company. No, an owl.

The common room was empty, except for Neely, who jumped up and flew from the bed in one terrifying rabbit-hop. She did not want to soil her fluffy white blankets with Emotionally Distant Amethyst-- the polish was nearly as strong as Figaro's stupid marker.

Latching onto the knob, and pulling with all her might, she held onto the door by both hands and swung back like a topsy-turvy toy from Weasleys'. The owl soared in, circled, and dropped the letter just as she yanked free of the door and fell in its direction. She caught the fluttering snowflake of sealed parchment and tore it half-open. It was hers, all hers! She was alone in the room, and it could be for no one else. Then, with the sudden realization of... reality... Neely accio'ed a coin and a crumble of biscuit and shooed the owl away. She slammed the door shut, locking out the prying eyes of untrustworthy and apparently English-literate avian creatures, and pressed her back into it, all the while tearing the letter open completely.

The ring fell into her palm almost as soon as her eyes hit the page, and she was distracted for a moment as her brain churned to solve the puzzle. Which it did. And it made her squeal.

Neely,

Will you be my Valentine?

Circle One:

Yes                       No                Maybe

Julian St. James

Neely's heart leaped across her chest, right, left, up, down, and did a full pirouette. Swear to Salazar. Cross her wand, hope to fly, stick a quill point in her eye.

The self-pitying pout that had turned into a self-righteous, self-important purse upon the letter's arrival, finally became a smile. It grew like a contagious germ, spreading over Neely's childish face and making it look even girlier, and yet, somehow positively womanlike in its hidden agenda. She had a Valentine's date. She'd attracted a boy. Not just any boy. The boy who had broken Jordyn's heart, and whom Jordyn had-- for whatever reason-- seemed to be pushing in her direction as of late. The boy whom she'd had to kind-of-sort-of turn down while she was still dating Sasha. And now he was giving her another chance!

Only, Julian was a very smart boy, and his letter had posed the question in such a way as to have Neely believe she was giving him another chance.

It worked like a charm.

Sashaying back to her bed, she landed triumphantly atop her pillows with a graceful little umph. She slipped the white rose ring onto her finger and admired it its pretty composition for a solid thirty seconds, turning her dainty digits this way and that. Ooooh, everyone would be so jealous! And wasn't Julian just the perfect artist? He should change his legal name to Dreamy. Dreamy St. James.

Picking up the powder-pink quill that bookmarked her Witch Weekly wish-list, the sandy-haired serpent scribed a most-confident and skillful circle... which was really more of a heart.