Dances, Sharon quickly decided, were for squares.
She felt so foolishly out of place http://i536.photobucket.com/albums/ff323/sharon_radcliffe/sharon.png, and as such, the desire and drive to punch every single boy (or girl) who looked at her funny as they passed was nearly overwhelming. Sharon had no date. That was obvious, because if she HAD been asked, she certainly wouldn't be wearing a scowl to accompany her crimson evening gown.
No, she'd look stunning and elegant. Radiant, like Charlotte over there, who had not just one, but two boys vying for her attention. Frustrated, Sharon huffed and filled her cup with punch. She realized it was her own fault, really; she'd been pretty reclusive since the beginning of the Tri-Wizard Tournament. She wasn't even aware that Hogwarts had won until several days later. She just couldn't find it in herself to care. Quidditch had been a lifeline for her, and without it, it was like something was missing.
And that wasn't even touching on this ridiculous Yule Ball. Sharon loved Christmas as much as anyone, but there was something about parading around on display like this that just didn't sit well with her. Most of her classmates didn't seem bothered by the notion that they were going to have to partake in one of these ritualistic spectacles; in fact, they seemed excited about it.
She really should have just gone home, but Charlotte had talked her out of it. She'd even helped her choose this gown, which nipped in at all the right places and was a delicate blend of velvet and satin. It truly was a magnificent dress, probably the best one she'd owned, but it was hard to focus on that when you were busy with copious amounts of strawberry punch and endless self-loathing.
She hated herself like this.
She always tried to put herself in situations where she felt confident and able, and prancing around like a love-starved loony wasn't one of those situations. Particularly when most of her romantic attention was focused in one sole direction. And, additionally, that direction was oblivious. So, while her peers were off enjoying tripping over themselves in too-tall-heels and indulging in first (and second and third and fortieth) kisses, Sharon was busy staring into her cup, watching the red liquid swirl around in an aimless fashion, which very much reflected her current mood.
Pathetic.
This Yule Ball was complete nonsense, Nelda had decided.
Her mother had sent her a http://i727.photobucket.com/albums/ww279/vh_nelda/il_430xN101858004.jpg, no doubt with all the best of intentions. In the letter she had sent with the dress, she said she had found this lovely dress that was just perfect for Nelda, it was a nice pretty greenish color that would match Nelda's eyes, and it was a little big but she had altered it just to fit Nelda.
But, to Nelda's horror, she discovered the dress that had been sent to her was clearly outdated and smelled very strongly of mothballs. And when she put it on, she found the dress to be too big.... very unflattering. And there was no choice but to wear that monstrosity to the ball. Her mother wanted her to send a picture.
On the evening of the ball, Nelda wore the dress along with a scowl. Despite the wintry beauty of the transformed Great Hall, and the cheerfulness that seemed to fill the air, a gloomy storm cloud hung over Nelda's head. She was stuck all alone without a date, and in an ugly dress. The only thing that might make this evening promising was the possibility of making someone else's evening miserable.
Nelda grabbed a cookie and a hot cocoa and strode around, looking for someplace to sit. If she sat down, she might be able to cover up more of the green taffeta her mother made her wear. When at last she came across a relatively unoccupied table. Only thing was, there was a girl sitting there, staring at a cup.
"What's a-matter with you? Lost your date already? Poor you. And the night's not even half over."
Sharon had been carefully considering her position. She didn't want to look so forlorn so as to draw sympathies from those around her (though, a little sympathy wasn't necessarily a bad thing). At the moment, pity wasn't what she really wanted. Ideally, what she would have liked was Phee to see her sitting here alone, take that opportunity to come and cheer her up... invite her on the floor for a dance... and basically make Sharon the happiest girl on earth.
But, as far as she could tell, he wasn't here. Which wasn't all bad; at least it meant he wasn't prancing around with that tart, Lucia. Though, the fact that he wasn't here... and, now that she thought about it, she wasn't here... bah, did that mean they could be potentially off, somewhere, alone, together?!
For some reason, Sharon had been able to dispel this exact thought every other day of her life, but now that it was clouding her mind, she thunked her head on the table in defeat, nearly spilling the punch into her hair. Well, that was one way to draw attention.
She rose slowly, staring long and hard into her punch and willing the thoughts of Phee to go away. Apparently, she didn't look as sad or offensive as she thought, because it was then that some girl she didn't know thought that seven open seats meant "Hey, come sit with me, I'm a good time!"
Then she opened her mouth. Oh no she did not. Before she could react, Sharon stood, indignant. "Lost my date? What, a girl can't enjoy a cup of punch without a boy?" Her voice was growing squeaky. What did she have to prove to this girl? She didn't know her, though she looked vaguely familiar - a Slytherin, probably - but obviously young and inexperienced. And wearing an embarrassing teal number that in no way compared to Sharon's magnificent gown.
She decided to take a different approach.
"My date," she continued, focusing on the poisonous word, "went to the loo, if you must know. I'm just waiting for him to come back is all." Sharon was a very convincing liar when she had to be, and young children (let's forget the fact that the girl was only two years her junior) were gullible. She narrowed her eyes.
"What about you?"
If you were going to ask Robin why he'd stayed behind with the majority of his siblings, casting off the promise of a fabulous Christmas (well, as fabulous as a pauper's Christmas could be) just to mull around the ball for a single day, then be stranded here for the rest of the holiday, he would have no answer for you. There simply would be no point in exploring it, because he just didn't know. He'd stayed because they were staying.
Charlotte and Phoebus and Gabriella were all staying. The girls wanted to dress up, and Phoebus was.. was studying, apparently. He could have done that at home, and then Robin would have felt better having at least one cool person at home. As it was, it would have just been him and Dorian and the baby, kids-wise, and that was just never any fun at all. "So, how is it, practicing MAGIC", Dorian would ask very unkindly, seeing as he was the only Squib out of eight children, the youngest of which showed more magical ability at three than he had in his entire life.
So yeah, that was always on the more awkward side of things. Not that this was any better, the boy reflected, straightening the cuffs of his sleeves and trying to subdue the ruffles on his chest that were trying to choke him. For some reason this ancient thing had a giant brooch-type stone at the throat, and waves of scrunched fabric (the ruffles) poured down the boy's front like a waterfall from that point. He felt like he'd tripped out of a Disney film, and stood at great risk for being beaten up on his way back home into the land of fairytales.
At least it fit. Who'd have known that at thirteen, he was already the same freakish height that his father had been? It seemed to be the only genuine family trait that they all shared; height that would cause a half-giant to re-think their heritage. Oh they also mostly all shared the hazel eyes with varying degrees of green, but you couldn't tell unless you lined them up as if preparing them for a firing squad.
Speaking of killing people, Sharon Radcliffe was standing by the punch bowl looking positively murderous, but Robin, the poor unfortunate soul, didn't notice until it was too late. As he strode by, still trying to smooth the ruffles out of the..ruffles, he felt a vicelike grip on his arm and yelped in pain. "Sharon!" he squeaked, trying to pry her fingers from his flesh, where her nails were digging in like talons. Any moment she was going to sprout an eagle head and he would know for sure that she was a veela.
"Here's my date."
...
What?
Damian hadn't realized that by being only 20 minutes late, the Great Hall would already be filled with fancy-dressed bodies in tight knit crowds or embarrassingly intimate pairs. He could hardly find his way around to the punch bowl, let alone find anyone he knew. Frankly, he would hardly have been able to find his way around the Great Hall BEFORE they'd put up all the decorations, even if it was just one big room.
... He didn't get around much. ... Or pay attention much. ... Or even have his eyes open much.
So anyway, after he'd let Arcite dress him, since the boy was somehow leaps and bounds ahead of Damian in terms of style, he'd lingered around in the room for another couple of Z's in his suit-jacket (hardly comfortable). And now... this. He felt like he'd stepped into a really crowded snow globe--including the whole getting turned upside-down and shaken part of being in a snow globe.
He ran his fingers through his bedhead (maybe napping hadn't been a good idea), and considered returning to the entrance to reset and plan another route, but... he didn't know where the entrance was anymore either.
That's when he saw her.
Not the her he'd WANTED to see, but a her he kinda-sorta knew. But not really. More like they had a mutual friend. HER.
And that was good enough for him (at this point). Striding over to the table where she appeared to be reclining in misery. Until she stood up indignantly anyway, snapping at the girl who had joined her. Damian winced. Boy, Charlotte and co. could be scary when they were mad.
Aaaaand there went Robin into the lion's den. Why wasn't he a Gryffindor?
Ambling over, shouldering kissing couples out of the way, he stopped at Robin's side and glanced from them to the young girl across the table. "Hey..." Damn, he couldn't remember their names, he really had to get out more, "--you two." He was pretty sure he'd heard something suspiciously like 'He's my date' before he'd arrived, so he reached out and pat Robin on the shoulder. "You two... lovebirds, you." At least some people were having fun tonight.
"You guys got any idea where Charlotte's gone off to?" Seeing Sharon's half-finished punch, feeling thirsty and incredibly put-out that he hadn't yet managed to find the punch bowl himself (and no, hadn't thought to peek behind Sharon, she might interpret it as him trying to get a look at her arse), he picked it up and took a casual sip himself. --and then passed the rest to Robin, who's gap-mouthed look suggested he might need a drink himself.
He nodded to the girl across the table. "Who's the squirt?" He wasn't really interested, he was just trying to deflect from his whole punch-stealing move there. Not too suave. You can dress him up, but you can't really take him out yet.
If ever there were a time that Sharon wouldn't absolutely lament the presense of one Robin Alexanders, it was now. There were a select few people at Hogwarts that she would have had absolutely no residual guilt in using as a scapegoat here. Not that she really cared what this girl thought about her date, or lack of, but it just irked her anyway. Maybe the most irksome of all was that she didn't have one, rather than the girl pointing it out, and she was ready to rectify it.
Though naturally Robin wouldn't have been her first choice. Or her second. Or her forty-fifth, but hey, beggers can't be choosers. So, it was his own misfortune and ironic circumstance that he chose that moment to pass by her table, instead of avoiding her in his usual manner, and she immediately reached out and death-gripped his arm, tugging him toward her with a look that pleaded he play along.
"Here's my date," she said through slightly clenched teeth. Might as well keep the lying to a minimum audience. Before she could finish her thought (or at least try and come up with the next part to her brilliant plan of unnecessary deception), Damian something-or-other approached the group, casually refering to her and Robin as "lovebirds". Apparently she'd been speaking entirely too loudly. She dropped his arm immediately.
But, she grabbed it quickly again as Damian continued on, asking about Charlotte. God, why did everything have to be about Charlotte? Didn't she have enough going on over there? "Charlotte's probably got a line out the door by now," Sharon said mildly, response full of thinly-veiled contempt. "Probably should take a number."
Which wasn't an insult to Charlotte, really. It wasn't the girl's fault that she was attracting approximately two to fifteen as many boys to her side (depending on when you looked), compared to Sharon's zero. Well, one. Two, if you wanted to get technical, but since Damien's interest obviously lie elsewhere, it didn't count. And Robin didn't really either, since he'd had no choice in the matter.
So, yeah, back to zero.
Amidst her own internal self-esteem struggle, Damian thought it fitting to claim privilages over her punch. She quirked a brow as he took a swig, then thought that Robin would be delighted to partake as well. She braced herself for a comment about cooties.
Given the situation, there wasn't much reason in putting up a fight or a scene over punch. Not with her dignity at stake. "No clue," Sharon commented idly, eyes averting to the dance floor to see if anyone noticed or cared that she was clung to Robin's arm. (They didn't). "She just came up and started tossing insults at me."
Nevermind it was a perfectly valid and correct assessment of her situation. She'd have rather this not turn into a reflection of Sharon's completely absent love life, thanks.
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