Butterscotch Sundae

Chapter 1 - Combat Boots and Weasley Red

"Oi! Would you mind turning up a little bit later next time? It's not like we've just missed half the lesson because of you or anything!"

Steeped in venom, the voice of Louise DeSarge rang impossibly loud in Chiara's ears as the latter made her way to one of the few vacant seats at the front of the classroom, eyes downcast and shoulders hunched.

"Oh, loosen up, Lu!" came a cheerful voice, which Chiara ignored, only relieved that she'd managed to reach her seat and settle down without a fuss.

"Why? Because I, as opposed to you, happen to be interested in actually learning something here?" snapped Louise, also known as The Obnoxious Harpy, and the argument went on until Flitwick put a prompt end to it by assigning both parties a three-foot essay outlining the reasons why it's not a good idea to disrupt lessons.

"Morning!"

Chiara looked up, not at all surprised to come face to face with Katie Bell, her classmate and friend of sorts.

"Hey," she said with a tiny smile, before returning to her book.

"So, have you had a good summer?" Katie pressed on, planting herself next to the girl, resolute that this time, she'd crack the shell of that strange, huddled up creature in the scuffy combat boots.

"Mm," nodded Chiara indifferently.

Katie stared at her hard before heaving a mighty sigh and deciding—like many times before—that trying to chat to this girl was officially a lost cause. Chiara Annetta Morelli just didn't seem to want to be chatted to.

Chiara's butterscotch-coloured eyes remained fixed on her book and her demeanour didn't shift one bit as Katie took two steps at a time to the girls' dormitory. She only tucked a few loose copper-brown tendrils behind her ear and turned a page, apparently unaware that Katie had now returned—and was not alone, either. In tow came Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet, all three of them whispering furiously among them and stealing glances at the hunched form on the armchair by the fire.

"What should I say?"

"—can't do it—"

"—she just won't, don't you get it?"

"—if we'd just—"

"Chiara, hey!" An unnaturally bright Angelina beamed at the girl, who once again patiently paused in her reading to listen. "We—the girls and I—we were thinking...there's two free periods in a row this afternoon and we're planning to go sunbathing by the Lake. The weather's brilliant and Alicia will have a picnic basket prepared for us as well. D'you want to come?"

"Um, no, thanks, I want to finish this," she indicated the book on her lap. "But thanks for the offer, anyway."

"Sure," muttered Alicia, privately thinking there had never been any chance of the girl accepting in the first place. "No bother."

With awkward smiles, the three Gryffindor Chasers headed off. Sighing, Chiara pulled a long piece of parchment out of her sling bag, glanced at the heading of Describe the Properties of Elfswort and Its Use in Modern Potioneering, dumped it inside again and, making herself comfortable on the armchair, became fast engrossed in her book.

"I've tried to get her to come with us, but she just won't! I don't know what's wrong with her..."

"Chiara's always been like this, Kats, it's not your fault. Just forget it."

"But she's nice, she really is!" the short, curly-haired Chaser protested, squirming and making Alicia's job of smearing suntan lotion on her back rather hard. "She's just a bit of a...a shrinking violet."

"Oh, a bit, huh?" snorted Alicia, while Angelina bit her lip, wanting to agree badly, but not daring to. "The chit's the most antisocial person I've ever met and she has the worst taste in clothes in history. And she's Italian, you'd say she'd be the exact opposite of this."

"That's racist, Ally," Angelina pointed out tiredly, rolling her eyes.

"But she does!" Alicia insisted.

"I get the feeling we're missing the point here!"

"Which is?"

"What can we do to un-freak the freak," supplied Alicia.

"ALICIA!" warned the two girls in unison.

"What I don't get," Alicia went on, fingers entangled in her strawberry blonde hair, "is why, given that she wakes up at like, five pm, she's almost always late for class. Why she sits alone THE WHOLE TIME, and insists on using that hideous neon blue pen so no one can make out what's she's written, and, most importantly, why, in the name of Merlin's frilly underwear, doesn't she ever seem to care about a little gossip!" fretted the blonde. "And what's with those god-awful overalls and combat boots?"

"I had a completely unjustified feeling you'd ask that, Ally..."

Madam Pince, her waxy, shallow skin stretching over her prominent cheekbones, peered over her hooked nose at the tomb-silent library. It being only the fourth actual day of lessons, the high-ceilinged room with the endless corridors and the shelves stacked high with books of your wildest imaginations was very nearly deserted, yet there was still the occasional student hunched in a corner or casually browsing, or nearing desperation over an essay that just won't sum itself up.

Chiara trailed the fingertips of her right hand along the vertically stored spines of the ancient volumes, eyes rapidly moving from one title to the other and lips inaudibly half-forming the words. A look of recognition crept up on her face and she paused, stretched to the best of her ability and, with a little effort, managed to extricate a specific book. Thing was, as soon as she got her hands on it, the volume was snatched away from her by a passing blur of red, which stopped a few paces ahead—long enough for her to place 'it' correctly as a boy from her own year—thoroughly examined the book in question, raised an eyebrow and shook his head—Chiara found herself unable to tear her eyes away from that shock of ginger hair—before turning to a slightly bewildered and still Chiara.

"No, won't do—Ah, sorry, there, just checking if this is the mutated copy my brother and I planted here on Thursday. Obviously...not. Here." He smiled and handed back the book to her, motioning at the same time at the title, "Bundimun?" a questioning look on his face.

"It's this...greenish fungus. With eyes," explained Chiara, recovering quickly (What was his name, she knew his name, she just did...). "It says here..." she flipped through the pages expertly, eyes roaming the print, "Ah—An infestation of Bundimuns can destroy a house, as their secretions rot away the foundations. This same secretion, in diluted form, is used in some magical cleaning solutions." (NAME!)

"Should mention that to my mum. Fancy cleaning your house using fungi!" he grinned, dazzling green eyes dancing as he gave her an once-over. Two random things seemed to strike him in her appearance—one, the thin, pinkish scar running jagged from just above her left temple to half an inch below her earlobe. Two, the fact that her hair colour seemed to shift depending on the way the lone streak of sunlight from a window fell on it.

"Actually—"

"George!"

"Ah, duty calls! Beware, Madam Pinces of the world!"

And with an exaggerated gesture towards her, he disappeared behind a bookcase.

(NAM—Oh, that's right—Weasley.)

She's clutching the bundle against her chest and stamping her feet against the ground in an attempt to warm herself up. He jerks open the door thankfully soon and his hair is shaggy and he hasn't had a decent shave for weeks, his clothes filthy, frayed, but his bright blue eyes are smiling at the sight of his sister on the threshold.

"Sweet Merlin, Riccardo," Chiara whispers, flinging herself at her brother and hugging him tight, as though she has no intention of ever letting go.

Riccardo laughs, and his laughter is like purifying water, washing over the girl with utmost relief. "Couldn't resist dropping in, could you? Still, I'd have picked a less...ungodly hour."

"I couldn't not come! Anyway, I've got to go to class later, I haven't got time. That horrid woman's handing out detentions left, right and centre and I'd bet I'm next on her list," sighs Chiara, shaking her head. "Here—I nicked those from the kitchens. Should be enough till I visit again."

"Where have you been?"

Riccardo lets out a deep sigh and opts for an evasive reply, "Here and there."

He's lying on the hearthrug in front of the blazing fire, his head on his sister's lap, recently washed black hair spilling all over her white dress. She's stroking his head softly, trailing patterns on his skull. She loves her big brother beyond measure; he feels he wouldn't be able to go on if anything ever happened to her.

"What's here and there?"

"Places. People."

The stroking stops momentarily. "What people?"

"His people."

Her hand trembles, but she keeps running it through his hair. "It's getting serious, then?"

"More or less."

"And Father?"

"Left again last week. Won't be coming back for another month."

"And then?"

"Who knows?"

Silence ensues, interrupted only by the crackle of flames. Then—

"Riccardo—"

"No."

"But—"

"Chiara, don't."

"No one would know!" she bursts out. "Think about it, Ric; freedom! Father doesn't think us capable of it, he'd never suspect—"

"He would know," Riccardo interrupts her quietly. He's sitting upright now, looking straight at her. "You don't understand, Chiara, you've never seen him...what he can do to people...He'd find out all about it before you could say 'pure-blood' and then we'll be done for. You don't know...once a Death Eater..."

Instinctively, they both cast a short look in the direction of Riccardo's left arm; it twitches nervously and Chiara averts her eyes with painful knowledge. She brings her knees up to the level of her head and buries her face in her crossed arms, rocking back and forth. Without hesitation, Riccardo inches towards her and puts an arm around her small body.

"Come on, amore," he whispers into her dark hair. "I'm here, hm? I'll always be here."

And, somehow, the girl raises her head and gives a weak smile, before cuddling in her brother's arms.

She has to leave before nine o'clock, but can't help prolonging her short stay, treasuring the moments in which she truly feels at home. As she steps out of the tiny house, she embraces him and promises to be back, at the same time making him swear he won't 'convert' both in English and in Italian. That's what she calls it in her mind, a conversion. The last thing she wants right now is to have her own brother crudely wrenched away from her because of some stupid wizarding war.

"Be safe," she whispers to him in their mother tongue and he stands watching her as she's swallowed by the mist.

Back on track! Well, how about a bit of feedback there? Don't really want to beg, but...well, you know! Anyway, have a marvellous day and thanks a bunch for reading!

Effie