Post by Micha Volkov on Nov 30, 2010 1:36:13 GMT -5
Micha Rolanovna Volkov, Slytherin Fifth Year, advanced at charms, adept at transfigurations, and more than capable at Quidditch, was doing something she'd rarely done in all her fifteen years of living, even when she'd been attending Beauxbatons, the school most famous for its always photogenic students: she was standing in front of a mirror, looking at herself.
That was not to say she never looked in mirrors, which would be untrue, as the girl always checked her reflection in her room at least once before going out for the day, but she never actually looked at herself save to make sure her hair was in place and her uniform looked spotless.
The event, this whole surreptitious mirror-looking, had even been pre-meditated, which was to say she'd been very careful to make sure there was no one nearby before she slipped into the girl's bathroom closest to the Feasting Hall and, as the Americans said, 'checked herself out'.
She knew she was quite pretty, after all, if she wasn't, Whites would have left her alone by now, wouldn't he? She'd always been an attractive girl, her dark hair and eyes against her pale skin marking her aside from the others as something foreign, something different. Boys always wanted something unlike the others, and for that she did not exactly blame them, if that was just how they were. So she didn't hate Whites for his behavior, not exactly, but it did irk her that she let him get under her skin. She'd ignored his type for years, there should be no reason why she should stop now.
Had she made any friends? He did not understand, could not understand. Micha Volkov did not need friends. She'd gone just fine without them for her fifteen years, after all. Why was he, or even Leon or any of the other assorted cast of characters she'd met any different?
Simple answer: they weren't. The girl jerked back from the mirror where she'd been closely studying her always cold, ever indifferent face and tugged angrily on one pigtail. She did not care about any of their smiles or warm greetings or friendly eyes. It was as soon as she allowed herself to get close to them that they would strike, anyway, as it always had been. As long as she kept herself forever closed off, quiet, to herself, she could avoid that eventual treachery.
She could do that.
The girl unclenched her hand from her pigtail, fixed it neatly, and began to walk toward the door without another glance toward the mirror. Like she'd needed it in the first place, anyway. Micha Volkov was always picture perfect.
[ooc: First post to Leonora.]
That was not to say she never looked in mirrors, which would be untrue, as the girl always checked her reflection in her room at least once before going out for the day, but she never actually looked at herself save to make sure her hair was in place and her uniform looked spotless.
The event, this whole surreptitious mirror-looking, had even been pre-meditated, which was to say she'd been very careful to make sure there was no one nearby before she slipped into the girl's bathroom closest to the Feasting Hall and, as the Americans said, 'checked herself out'.
She knew she was quite pretty, after all, if she wasn't, Whites would have left her alone by now, wouldn't he? She'd always been an attractive girl, her dark hair and eyes against her pale skin marking her aside from the others as something foreign, something different. Boys always wanted something unlike the others, and for that she did not exactly blame them, if that was just how they were. So she didn't hate Whites for his behavior, not exactly, but it did irk her that she let him get under her skin. She'd ignored his type for years, there should be no reason why she should stop now.
Had she made any friends? He did not understand, could not understand. Micha Volkov did not need friends. She'd gone just fine without them for her fifteen years, after all. Why was he, or even Leon or any of the other assorted cast of characters she'd met any different?
Simple answer: they weren't. The girl jerked back from the mirror where she'd been closely studying her always cold, ever indifferent face and tugged angrily on one pigtail. She did not care about any of their smiles or warm greetings or friendly eyes. It was as soon as she allowed herself to get close to them that they would strike, anyway, as it always had been. As long as she kept herself forever closed off, quiet, to herself, she could avoid that eventual treachery.
She could do that.
The girl unclenched her hand from her pigtail, fixed it neatly, and began to walk toward the door without another glance toward the mirror. Like she'd needed it in the first place, anyway. Micha Volkov was always picture perfect.
[ooc: First post to Leonora.]