The changes were both so stark and so obscure, still; but not the place.
Harry had thought that he would end up in the forest glade or the islet. He had never expected to be dumped into somebody's bedroom.
A particular somebody's bedroom, it seemed, for he could feel intense eyes examining him on his position sitting hugging his rucksack on the thickly-carpeted floor. Why must it be she? Why was he here?
He looked up, and his eyes met with those of charcoal-grey.
The girl, sitting in a revolving chair behind a cluttered writing desk, seemed to be naturally petite, with dusky skin and a complexion that reminded Harry of South-east Asian people. He would have thought her sweet-faced, if not for her relentless impassivity. He could also feel something beneath her humble, ordinary look, and it unnerved him. Worse, there was no one else in the large room to distract him or her. He had to help himself.
Thus he asked, "What's your name?"
Well, it was more a strained blurt, but he would not admit it even to himself. (That girl, again!)
It did not help, anyway. She just… smiled. What to smile about? She did not seem to mock him, so it was out of the options. But what else?
He pleaded with his eyes, begging her to speak, to alleviate the eerie silence between them. And at last, it bore fruit.
"Ardila."
Spoken softly but clearly, not like someone who had not used her voice for a long time… He could not place her thick accent, though. He had never heard of it. But it seemed rude to ask who she was.
She rose out of her chair, then, and limped towards him.
– Limped?
Just before she reached him, his eyes dropped to her feet.
They were asymmetric. That explained her strange gait from their late-night clandestine…
But before he could do anything, the pack left his arms. When he looked up, Ardila was perusing its contents with the air of someone that had arranged the pack in the first place. He was made sure of it when she said, "Keep it hidden. Have you eaten?"
Harry was floored, again. "…No."
And just so, she went to the far corner of the room and beckoned him to her.
It looked like a mini kitchen, complete with a kitchen counter and a few stools. The girl motioned Harry to sit on one of the stools, while she rummaged in the fridge. Afterwards she left him to face a plate of sandwiches and salad and a glass of milk on the table alone.
She was on the opposite side of the room, preparing items as if for a painting session.
Harry let out a sigh. Of all the places, why had he been dumped here? He could not say that Ardila was deliberately rude or had sinister intentions; but that was the point, was it not? She was so near but so distant, sweet but uncaring–
Confusing.