Post by Diomedea Rosier on Mar 26, 2009 16:12:16 GMT -5
It was later in the evening that Diomedea made her way for the Great Hall, for dinner. That cold Wednesday the lessons had been dull, and Diomedea was thinking of her little tete-a-tete with Sebastian in the Owlery, and what she had forced him to do. Certainly, it was malicious, and malevolent; cold-hearted and brutal. Then again, being with Tristain, what he made her feel, what he made her do, brought out something beautiful from inside her, that she had not known existed. And yet, what caused for this ugly manifestation of manipulation? She was not yet ready to accept these feelings he made sprout inside every fibre of her body, and perhaps desired to check whether there was any chance she could go back; she would not, and could not, but she wanted to curiously see that possibility.
On entering the Great Hall, clad in her uniform, without wearing the blac robes however, her blonde hair falling on her shoulders eleganly, and wearing an expression of tolerance in her face. She was not happy, she was not sad; she was satisfied. She sat down on the table, right next to Adele; she knew her rather well, the two of them talked to each other, especially when one felt morose and ill-tempered, but not necessarily. “Evening, Adele,” she told her, and pulled a dish of lasagne and a cup of orange juice towards her side. The Slytherin table, as the rest of the tables, and the Great Hall in general, was filled with students, loud animated chatter, and a broad-spectrum buzz that reached everyone’s ears. She liked Adele; she thought she was interesting, and her looks were endearing. “How was your day? I heard McGonagall gave you a hard time.”
On entering the Great Hall, clad in her uniform, without wearing the blac robes however, her blonde hair falling on her shoulders eleganly, and wearing an expression of tolerance in her face. She was not happy, she was not sad; she was satisfied. She sat down on the table, right next to Adele; she knew her rather well, the two of them talked to each other, especially when one felt morose and ill-tempered, but not necessarily. “Evening, Adele,” she told her, and pulled a dish of lasagne and a cup of orange juice towards her side. The Slytherin table, as the rest of the tables, and the Great Hall in general, was filled with students, loud animated chatter, and a broad-spectrum buzz that reached everyone’s ears. She liked Adele; she thought she was interesting, and her looks were endearing. “How was your day? I heard McGonagall gave you a hard time.”
