fever dream

Pansy washed her hands in cold water. She felt guilty, on bad days, for hot sips of tea. She was supposed to be cold. That was the point of her, a sharp edge, a chill down your spine. She was unkind. She couldn't run away from that, the cruel barbs she'd spat out all her life. She was turning them other places now, useful ones, instead of easy targets, but this was still her life. Her core held no light.

“Yes, my tiara sets off the whole thing nicely," said Auntie Muriel in a rather carrying whisper. "But I must say, Ginevra's dress is far too low-cut." Ginny glanced round, grinning, winked at Harry, then quickly faced the front again.”