Disclaimer: Once again, I own nothing except for my words.
Chapter 2: Home Sweet Home
At the age of 10, her greatest accomplishment is an embroidered façade of home.
It takes her a year to finish it: a week in sketching out the whole design, a month in stitching some of the details, and the rest of the duration in filling out the widely-spaced cloth with coordinated threads. It is difficult - an entirely different process from her usual embroidery of floral patterns, and even more so that home is a four-storey country house in baroque architecture.
She might be talented in needlework, but for a child still as young as her, patience is one of the many things she lacks. More often than not, she finds herself easily aggravated because of a wayward thread or otherwise bored at having to work tediously. It is easy for her to lose focus and it shows a lot in her existing progress, all of which is made up of work done at sporadic amounts of time.
She even nearly gives up and lights the embroidery fabric on fire when it has dawned on her that her planned project is much too high for her current capabilities to support.
Frankly, the only reason why she was able to finish it is because of a passive remark from Grammy Flint about her "poor work ethic."
Once done, she shows it to her parents with a display of immeasurable pride, which increases when her father charms it to match the original Flint Manor in real time.
She watches in amazement as blue threads from above begin to move at a leisurely pace, reminiscent of the clouds she has seen hanging about their home.
Strands of blue and brown shift next, and they become identical to the manor's colouring on a sunny day at noon.
The scanty green fibers resembling grass and trees flutter from an imaginary breeze, but an open window makes it a reality. At once, she feels it sweep on her clothes and face.
Always one to be overtly-proud of his children, her father offers to frame it. The next day, it hangs above the hearth in the drawing room for every inhabitant and visitor of the house to see.
Years later, she still feels that certain glow of pride whenever she enters the room and looks at the piece.
It is one of the things she has managed to do perfectly, and no one can say otherwise.
A week and a half passes before she finally finds a flat.
It is somewhere between Diagon and Knockturn Alley - a thing most convenient now that work will be but a walking distance away. It is however, closer to the shadier part of the shopping district, and it is with foresight that she brushes up on her knowledge of wards and considers buying an anti-Alohomora lock.
She moves in on her day off, bringing with her her lone trunk.
Fortunately, or in this case, unfortunately, she got exactly her money's worth: a crumbled-down brick fireplace, questionably stained beige walls, and a water closet more ancient than her family line (which was just her luck too, as she needed to go to the loo right after moving in).
It is hardly ideal, but she'll make do. It wasn't as if the flat was only ridden with faults; it came with some advantages too, no matter how inconsequential they were.
Thoughtfully, she ponders on how the whole area was spacious and well-ventilated enough to allow a cool breeze to linger around.
There is also that remarkable antique set of drawers lying in the corner of her bedroom, as well as the comfortable, yet old mattress on the bed frame.
It is the small victories that count, and as that Muggle film says: "Home is where the heart is".
She decides that her heart is definitely in the right place. With a little elbow grease and a slew of different cleaning charms, she will finally have someplace to call her own.
In the end, she doesn't have the heart to take down her prized embroidery from the hearth. She asks Gil to do it for her instead.
Meanwhile, she waits patiently in her bedroom.
Outside, the window reveals a purple-tinged sky with the sun being a small dot in the distance. It fills her room with a desolate air.
Her things are scattered all over, and sooner or later, her mother or father would appear to berate her on the disorderly state of the room.
It wouldn't matter though, for she would surely be gone before either one of her parents appeared.
She sits next to her perceptibly full trunk. It is filled with everything she has managed to cram in over the span of 20 minutes.
The door opens with a small creak, and she jumps.
A head of blond hair pops out, and she sighs with relief. It was only Gil.
His face looks stony, but in his hands is the gilded oak frame which she treasured so much.
She smiles.
The last of the doxies are dead and Vanished. She cracks open a window after ensuring that there were no more of the annoying pests.
The scent of doxycide starts to waft outside, and it is with tiredness that she removes the impromptu protective mask wrapped around the lower half of her profile.
Her head sticks out of the window, and she breathes in deeply, maximising the intake of fresh air.
Although undoubtedly useful, the potion in very large quantities, has the unlucky side-effect of causing one to feel light-headed. And fumigating the entire flat had never been an option - it had to be done.
Of course, it was just her marvellous luck again that the summer heat decided to make its last appearance during the nascent autumn season.
As such, she had spent the hours before with the sun beating down her back, spraying doxies in every direction with an almost maniacal glee, all the while trying not to faint from dehydration.
But thankfully, it is now nearing twilight. The cool darkness is a welcome contrast to the scorching temperature from earlier, and also a testament to the hours she spent breaking her back.
She observes the scenery for a few moments before going back to her trunk. It is mostly unpacked, save for a few things. She crouches down and picks up a golden frame.
She turns back to the collapsed fireplace, and hangs it above the mantelpiece.
It is back in its usual place. She admires it in the darkness of her flat
In the frame, all of the minuscule windows glow hazily. Despite being numerous, it only lights up quite weakly.
With a closer survey, she wonders why the house is brimming with lights. The manor is dimly-lit most of the time, and at best, only several of its multitudinous rooms are lit. But now, it is positively oozing with incandescence.
There must be an ongoing party, she thinks.
A niggling feeling appears and it settles deep in her throat. She ignores it, focusing instead on the whole picture.
Home sweet home.
A/N: So this chapter was a bit short. But don't worry, it will get longer in the next ones, like immensely longer. In the meantime, please continue to support and review this fic, thanks!
