Stage Fright (Terry)

[Margaux Lefevre]

i think the spotlight always gives you stage fright
†WISH THIS ALL WOULD END RIGHT†

†STOP MAKING MY HEAD SPIN†
it's over but what if we just pretend

Margaux was not crying. She didn't like cry and thus didn't cry. She wasn't upset by anything that Vera or any of her sisters did. She simply doesn't.

She shifts from foot to foot, knees already stiff with cold and lack of motion. It reminds her of the British guard she's seen on postcards with tall bushy hats low on their brows--goose-stepping to counteract their perfect stationary positions.

Baise tout le monde if she's going to be like that. She sits promptly on her heels and scowls at the Scottish scenery. Idly, her fingers stretch back to behind her ear only to find nothing. Lazare, her petite forest bat, is probably fast asleep in her room back at the Hogwarts castle. She's used to the palm-sized creature hanging like an earring off the back of her ear, chittering to himself and keeping her neck warm.

As it is now, the presence of tiny claws is gone and she'll have to pretend that he's there with her. Listening to her problems as Gwenaël might.

"Merde, Lazare....simplement merde." As if Ambre was there glaring at her, Margaux remembers that she should be speaking English. Good practice and all that. A flush of guilt rushes over her cheeks and she tried again. "Eet ees so cold 'ere. So far North."

If Gwen were here, he would tell her that she's being silly. It's cold in September at home too. Then again, if Gwen were here they wouldn't be at Hogwarts. They'd be at home. And it would be summer. July and August are really the only times she can see her younger brother these days.

Wind blows like a low murmur over the frost dusted grounds. Margaux rocks back on her heels and the blades of frozen grass crunch beneath her weight. Her thighs burned from the effort of prolonged squatting and frosty mud was seeping into the hem of her robes. Inside, although warmer and cleaner, didn't look much better.

Margaux had spent the morning combing out chewing gum from Blanche's hair after some Durstrang boy spelled it there. Her sister was swearing violently under her breath, threatening five forms of harm to befall the boy. When Margaux had suggested that he did it because, "he has a fancy for you, Blanche" it was ill received.

So pouting out here in the Scottish cold seemed like a viable solution to the trouble of her infuriating siblings.

It was fine. She was fine.