She'd always known that Xenophilius Lovegood was an odd one. Even if she hadn't, his house probably gave as much away; a towering, slightly askew affair of stone standing tall against the now mauve shade the sky had taken on as the winter evening began to bleed in. The building sat comfortably under a thick brambly mesh of leaves and branches that lay heavy with small orange fruits, stone walls adorned with scribbled portraits of strange animals in vivid shades of orange green and blue. A homemade sign that read "Keep off the Dirigible Plums!" nestled cozily at the front.
Timidly, the girl approached the awkwardly constructed steps that led up to the man's front door and stopped. Suppose he didn't believe what she had to say? It had been a good year or so since the two had last spoken, after all. Suppose he didn't even remember her amongst all the horrible goings-on with the Ministry and grief for his daughter's disappearance, and mistook her news for knowledge of a Deatheater? Bare feet shuffle nervously where they stood undecidedly at the front door to the house. (She really ought to have worn shoes. It's only polite.) Her lower gut tugs in apprehension as she glances up at the contorted edges of a window pane where an orange glow shone dimly from the house; there was only really one way to go about it. She knocks at the door.
Unsurprisingly, there is no instantaneous response. A sudden shuffle and clatter of pots from inside the building can be heard, but after that nothing.
'He's hiding.'
A gust of bitter wind blew any thoughts of turning to leave from her head, and the wooden door gives an unwelcome shriek as she tentatively pushes it open.
The girl's nose is immediately greeted with an earthy, tangy, strangely recognizable smell, which she notes a discarded teapot pregnant with sodden stewed teabags as the culprit of. The room - presumably the kitchen, judging by the amount of chinaware that she found herself surrounded by - was silent and barely visible by just the delicate light of the moon, and an ancient floorboard groans unhappily as she steps further in.
At her feet a small furry object catches her attention. Humming suddenly in curiosity, she bends to her knees for further inspection, only to be interrupted with a startling abrupt BANG - she jumps back to her feet, hand instinctively reaching to grab for some sort of defense, only to be met with anothers wand aimed directly at her forehead.
"Stop!"
Silence.
Panting slightly, she allows her sights to be drawn away from where the aggressors' wand very nearly touches her skin and slowly travels down until, as she inevitably expected, they meet with a pair of grey twinkling eyes that look slightly pained under a furrowed brow.
"Who are you?" the man spoke softly yet sharply in his familiar Irish tang. "What do you want?"
The girl smiled, "Come on, Xenophilius. There's no need to be pointing wands, now."
(A/N: I apologise for the lack of action thus far, it will get more exciting I promise. Reviews and constructive criticism are treasured and appreciated and shall probably result in quicker updates. Thank you, darlings!)
