Wee, thankies with much graciousness Ms Eclectic and Bronze Eagle uber hugs!!! This chapter should be a little more straightforward; but you know . . . about as straightforward as I get Erm, for all of you just joining in, this is where all of the other main characters are introduced--some should seem a little familiar, of course. Only one OC and she's definately NOT a Mary-Sue. Well . . . you'll see. Oh, and Eagle-sama, of COURSE!!! lol
Lesson II: Courtesy to Strangers
the house half the way
fell empty with teeth
that split both his lips
mark these words
one day this chalk outline will circle this city
was he robbed of the asphalt that cushioned his face
a room colored charlatan
hid in a safe
stalk the ground
stalk the ground
- "Televators" The Mars Volta
"Finish mowing the lawn, if you have any grand delusions of supper this evening!"
/One step forward, too steps back./ he groaned, faltering a moment. Oblivious, or more likely uncaring, he pushed his garden-gloved hands on his worn jeans, tightly jamming his eyes shut in an attempt to ignore that horrid sunlight.
Distantly, he heard a freshly-painted white screen door slam shut. It became agonizingly quiet again--a summer silence that made one shiver in anxiety. There was no one around besides perfect white-picket fences fit for the perfect white house, the too-bright sun, and that ever present stench of freshly cut grass.
His overall feeling of unease was particularly acute that Wednesday afternoon . . . almost evening. He had occupied the smallest bedroom of number four, Privet Drive for only a month, yet it seemed like a decade at least. Day to day of his Aunt Petunia's whines, brought about too close to his ear every morning at ten past seven, had taken its toll on him.
If it was at all possible, he was wearier of it then he had ever been.
It had been so dry lately that even the freshly-purchased posies and violets, sticking oddly from green plastic cups, were nearly dead anyway. There was a feeling of futility and pity for the flowers as he replanted them dutifully, one-by-one, dooming them all to constant sunlight and a loveless existence. Because as much as he pitied them under his constant care, he sure as hell didn't like them, and his Aunt Petunia could probably care less with how much affection she showed them anymore.
He wiped another bead of sweat from his forehead, feeling the mixture on his hands combine to create a smear of mud on his face. Harry could honestly admit that he could care less about his appearance.
Finally, after replanting four flowers after Petunia last shrieked at him of his impossible task that night, he faltered completely, hanging his head.
He was cooked despite his tan, and dehydrated considerably enough that his head was spinning peculiarly with orange flashes of the sunset and it's mark upon various scattered gardening utensils. Harry felt his spine go limp as he slumped forward over his crossed legs, finally closing his eyes.
/I can't do this any longer./
The oddly clear swirls around him roared to life in obvious agreement.
/I must be really far gone,/ he realized to himself wearily /these illusions are even freakier than usual./
Not even bothering to put away his gardening tools away properly, he stumbled to the swinging back door, quietly slipping into the house without his relatives noticing. They seemed to be eating supper in front of the television again, and had more important things on their mind than watching the door.
He made sure not to tread any mud on the pristine white carpeting covering the stairs, but he became so dizzy that it was much too profound to even navigate up the pale steps without tumbling back down again.
Another limp swing of his head, and his world was a tumble. Black etchings over the hazy picture of cleanliness that he knew, barely, was the true reality of the Dursley household, appeared. They twisted and taunted him down the dimly lit hallway, to his modest little bedroom at the end.
/ . . . What the hell?/
He had never been this delirious, before. The illusions of writing that he knew weren't actually there formed runes and dreams untouched.
Soon, they swarmed in a haze of violets, outlined quaintly by oranges; burning the air. He thought he smelled something burning.
Not contemplating the stupidity of the action, he reached out as if to touch one of the patterns, but it danced away quickly, contorting in color and shape all the while. The good-natured trembling in the movement made it seem to giggle somehow.
He withdrew his hand with a frown, finally coming to himself again.
Harry slipped into his bedroom and collapsed onto his bed, swirls and dream- like glyphs still tantalizing his mind.
------
Otherwise strange thoughts fell through Draco's mind. They hurried tensely with whispered footsteps; he was so agonized over keeping quiet and unnoticed physically that even his thoughts were blunted slightly.
Quiet.
He reeled with tormented distress.
/I have to get out of here . . . /
The woolen socks that adorned his feet were much too small, but they muffled his footsteps admirably and he knew he couldn't complain of their efficiency. They did not fail him to slip on the barest layer of dust caressing wooden floorboards in the dark.
His breathing was slightly ragged. Licking his lips nervously and not bothering to reprimand himself over making them even drier, he forced his breaths to even themselves.
"Calm," he whispered to himself "just stay calm."
The young Malfoy heir shuffled on.
". . . He has deceived us, he has used us. We cannot go on like this!"
His breath caught in his throat, warning him, melting his self-control before starting again with even more anguish. He was . . . too late?
/No no no, Mother, I was not quick enough!/
"Who is to say that this--other creature is any more powerful?" his father's voice sent unwelcome shivers down the sweaty sheen on his back.
Scampering up quietly to the not-quite-ajar door, feeling the deceiving flicker of the firelight rather than immediately seeing it, he braced a delicate hand gently on the oak doorframe. He also braced his dry lips against the cool wood in a habitual gesture, built of many years of sneakiness.
Yet he had never imagined, never intended to be the utterly unexpected fugitive in his own house.
He chanced a glance to the would-be cozy study and the deep shade of velvet snapped tightly over high-backed chairs that he had once read peacefully in, watched fondly by noonday sun. The tense figures of his parents stood rigidly beside them, involved in a passionate debate that he was warned to dread.
"He will be greater than the Dark Lord." His mother crossed her arms sternly, assuredly, but she was losing her husband's attention "He is the heir to the greatest ancestry--the greatest magical power in the world!"
"How do we know he'll even show up in this lifetime?!"
"We don't--"
"Well then!" He cut her off as if her entire argument were complete nonsense, and simply the ravings of a street hag who did not deserve his attention.
Draco tore his eyes from their argument in horror, closing his eyes and bracing his back against the wall.
His mother had ordered him to flee the manor that morning, yet he had not understood. Her hurried whispers ached with sorrow and wistfulness . . . and he reluctantly abided by her passionate orders.
It was night, now. He should have left much earlier, to the protection of his godfather, he should have humored her more readily, he should have--
/I wouldn't have left at all if it were not for the text./
He opened his blurry eyes to reassure himself of the age-worn pages tucked tightly under his arm. Dust shedded on his otherwise immaculate robes, but it was of no importance.
It was no ordinary text; so said Narcissa Malfoy, so Draco had realized for himself.
'The Service of the Heir' it read in peeled font.
. . . It is all that matters . . . all that matters . . . it spoke quietly through his head. Even to an ordinary gaze, the book pulsed with power.
"Did you hear something?" his father's voice echoed ominously enough that Draco stiffened and his eyes widened.
. . . kill you, he will . . .
/Shut up!/
Narcissa seemed to realize his presence, her soul became strained and foreboded upon. Draco felt an urge to weep at his own insolence.
Fortunately, she recovered from the shock quickly.
"Of course not!" she snapped suddenly.
"Are you certain that Draco is asleep--"
He continued down the hall, yet the voices were all the more pronounced.
"Lucius, this is much more than a matter of power . . . " she cut him off " . . . my--family has been promised to the service of the Dark One . . . there isn't anything we can do, if we plan on saving our future generations."
Abruptly, a hissing feeling of unjustified dread swept through him like death. He trembled with every step, still intending to reach the fire of a nearby living room.
Without realizing the purpose, Draco quickened his pace. He knew his father was wary of his presence in the darkened hallway.
A bead of sweat trickled down his nose unpleasantly.
He felt like crying.
/No./ Too frightened to cry.
He continued his silent pace through the halls, certain that somehow everything would go wrong. His mother had spoke to him with such vibrant emotion despite her usual blank expressions, had trusted him with so much, if the look in her eye had been any testament of the importance.
He stuffed his leather-bound charge in a wadded and crinkled pillow case he picked up on the way by a house-elf's laundry basket. Somehow, hiding the book from his view seemed to bring him more comfort than ever before. He breathed a sigh of profound relief, suddenly regretting it before realizing he was too far away from his parents for them to hear his hurried breathing.
Draco stopped dead, his foot poised as he heard their voices escalate in volume.
"There has to be something substantial . . . "
"And the truth still remains;" his mother was brilliant at arguments, he recalled hazily, as if his memory were half-a-world away "he is not the one we were looking for!"
Finally, the main double-doors of Malfoy Manor came into view.
"Then what do you propose we do?!" his father's hiss was venomous, but relieving "You've put us in a very difficult position, Narcissa . . . "
/He believes./ Draco almost stumbled at the feeling of an oversized weight being lifted from his shoulders. He didn't understand why he cared so much. He didn't know what this escape was all about . . . but such understanding seemed rather trivial at that moment.
/I just have to get out./
A house-elf stood at the door, eyes open wider than he thought possible, it's bottom lip trembling as he bowed awkwardly to his young master. With a 'pop', his best cloak and favorite traveling hat appeared, sorted into each of the elf's scrawny arms.
Draco whirled past the cowering servant, putting his traveling things on by himself as the house-elf made distressed movements as if to follow him.
"I didn't come by here," Draco abruptly said, in a cold tone "you didn't see me."
The elf's ears flittered up to life, and it's hands covered it's mouth.
"Don't say anything." The elf nodded, but still looked rather tense.
His face disappeared under the stylishly wide-brimmed hat that always made him look more foreboding than he should, and he curled the cloak around his thin frame, shivering, though it was an unbearably hot evening.
He pushed the door open silently. It had been well-oiled, and well-taken care of.
/Thank the Gods for house-elves./ he found himself thinking for the first time in his life. There was a caressing breeze on his cheek as he made his way down the marble steps of his summertime home, and he closed his eyes to the coolness.
He heard an animalistic shriek and his eyes opened suddenly in shock.
Those were the thestrals in the North stables . . .
The thestrals only screamed on certain occasions . . .
Draco stopped abruptly, hardly daring to remember.
Wednesday.
How could they have forgotten?!
/Today is Wednesday./ His breathing became a rapid pendulum /Today, is Wednesday./
The Dark Lord always visited on Wednesdays.
/Oh no./
His eyes closed in the overwhelming terror.
/No. No no no no no no no no no./
Another thestral screamed, splitting the solemnity of the night like a sharp knife through warmed butter.
Without quite understand how he did it, the young Malfoy stumbled halfway down the steps, finally landing with his face tearing open dumbly by his widened eyes and bleeding wounds.
Whispers in the night, mutters in the dark . . .
It was like a bad dream, it was a bad dream, even as he glanced up the side of the Victorian manor, gazing at two figures hanging outside an open window, dressed in particular dark clothing.
The window carelessly let open rays of torchlight from the cozy study he had just passed minutes prior. It was quiet enough that his parents' voices were filtered through the pollen and distance hanging through the air.
The figures whispered to each other with caution. The words of his parents' secret conversation were traitorous, and dangerous, and . . .
/No/
The thestrals screamed again. Gliding figures without faces came closer and closer.
Draco ran for his life, for the treasure he held in his arms. He went faster than he knew he should, faster than it was possible for him to go. Gasping, he sprinted to the edge of a forest neighboring the manor.
He didn't allow himself to look back; his mother was relying on him.
Dimly, he would remember later of dashing through the forest to the house- elf cabin, and flooing to the only place he could think of off the top of his head.
"Hogwarts."
He didn't hear the manor go up in flames, nor the screams of his beloved mother as her body disintegrated slowly into common ashes. He didn't see his childhood home burn under the close scrutiny of family friends, smiling in triumph under sleek black masks.
He fainted before he could reach the other hearth-fire.
------
Black eyes darted toward the ceiling, disturbing stiff, circled lids that were kept awake from a different sort of insomnia. It was late enough that her too-girlish room filled with childish securities was cast solemnly with a deep blue hue. She could see the shadows of her stuffed toys smiling down upon her with expressions that weren't all there, and they smiled and smiled and smiled . . .
--Thump--Crash--
. . . and she couldn't smile back.
Burrowing under the thick, goose-down comforter seemed her only hiding place, even though she was sweating with the humidity and overall stuffiness of her bedroom. Involuntarily, she gave a little whimper to her hands, curling herself in the most compact position she could.
She trembled, her eyes shut as tightly as was possible.
--Thump--Sob--Thump--Shriek--
/Go away . . . just stop . . . just go away . . . /
A lengthened, high-pitched scream forced her dilated eyes wide open.
There were no words, just pain.
And she was in her little room, her little quiet room, with all the stuffed playmates she could possibly dream of.
Their false smiles and blank opaque eyes did not help her this time. She choked back on a sob, bringing herself up abruptly. Her legs were still tangled in her frilly white sheets. Hair hung from various angles over her back and shoulders, matted with intensity.
Her bottom lip trembled as she stared off to nothing in particular.
She heard a car drive by in suburbia, saw the headlights move through her frilly room.
Teeth snuck and bit her lip to keep it from shaking.
--Thump--Crash--Thump--Sob--
Without any further hushes of pain and suffering, echoing from the room right over, she tumbled out of her bed.
The carpet scratched into her arms, already burning reddish with fitful, fretful, tossing and turning.
She lay there, in a swirl of blankets, unable to shut out the sounds from the other room, and slithered to a still position.
She hadn't blinked for several minutes, when she finally shut her eyes again, to prevent her previously unshed tears mingle with the sweat already cooled on her glimmering face. Another car passed.
/I have to get out of here./ was her last reasonable thought.
She jumped at the sound of a slap, and her mother's hesitant scream, but her voice was already hoarse.
/Mother . . . I'm sorry . . . / her trunk was already packed. She was too frightened to leave during her summer holiday without her mother, because he would hurt her. He would beat her . . .
/ . . . I can't save you mother . . . /
She swallowed a lump in her throat, willing her eyes and throat to not give any outward appearance based off her own discomfort at the situation.
/ . . . I'm such a coward . . . /
He laughed in the other room; a low baritone guffaw that told of an innocent pastime and sincere joy at whatever he was doing. She didn't want that laugh directed at her.
Her mother didn't, either, and she had told her daughter so.
They didn't speak much any more. He was against it.
/ . . . I have to get out of here./
She lowered her trunk out the window, eyes darting around for onlookers as she held her breath to avoid attention. A dog barked somewhere in the street behind their house, but at 12:03, there were very few pedestrians. None, in fact.
Her breath let out, but did nothing to calm her tense posture and darting eyes; just in case.
Breathe.
She slipped out of the window silently, thrashing off lacy curtains that served to tangle her too-thin frame as she escaped her room. The tall grass itched her bare ankles, over hurriedly placed old sneakers without socks. The trunk handle squeaked as she threw it upright.
Tiptoeing through the rose bushes, she winced each time a thorn felt a need to bury itself in her flesh, through her flannel pajama bottoms and ruining her clothes. She felt tiny streams of warm crimson wash down her calves and to her bare ankles again . . .
Closing her eyes as if to make her reality hesitate away, she began to run, the wheels of her leather trunk turning and squeaking in protest behind her.
The wind could not tangle her hair any more than it already was. It hung as one giant clump that thrashed behind her, probably making a very comical outward scene but for once she was not concerned. She just needed to get--
/Away away, so far away./
It was all that mattered.
She did not notice it, but the street lights flickered out as she passed below them, fizzing and hissing with electrical annoyance.
Time was suspended and immortal as she ran; somehow, her heavy breathing and legs burning with use as she whipped through the streets seemed to comfort, as it was a complete contrast to her fitful 'sleeping'. The burning in her throat, her chapped lips against the onslaught of self- induced wind, her temples finally drying; it was all exhilarating.
She licked her lips at the change from suburbs to shady city blocks, slowing to the spell of the sounds that her trunk was making over worn concrete.
This was the sort of area that most careful parents steered their children away from. The sort where not only cigarette butts could be found, littered on the side of the road and through the cracks in the well-worn concrete. Where people a little less fortunate than the rest lived in cloister-like apartment buildings where safety was not guaranteed. Where lazy dandelions often sprouted up in between the concrete blocks of sidewalk.
Dropping the handle of her trunk, she breathed a sigh of relief. She had made it.
Looking back at her shadowed path, she still felt an urge to hurry on along before anyone would find her. He might come, just as he had before.
He didn't actually hurt her, but those sickening assurances, those 'everything is alright' smiles that did not reach his eyes, were worse. And he would take out that suppressed rage on her mother's fragile body--later. When he supposed her asleep behind the thick, safe walls.
She closed her eyes. /I couldn't save you mother./
A rusty old warehouse came into view, fashioned with massive plates of steel that were cast rippled like lasagna. The burnt shades of rust reflected dully in the dips of the metal, as if paint had shifted down the side of the building. There was grass around the outside of it, she noticed, peering and examining it.
Just like she remembered.
She found the door, peeling it open despite the false boards staked about the entrance, making it seem as though the warehouse had been abandoned long ago.
The nails were only attached to the door, not the frame. The reassurance made her smile slightly as she slipped in the dark depths of the supposedly dormant building.
Her eyes blinked a few times, adjusting to the darkness and she couldn't help but sneeze to the dust hanging visibly around her. Whispers hissed out suddenly like the shrill squeaks of hidden rats between floorboards. Shushes followed almost immediately.
They studied her, she could feel their gaze.
"Isa . . . " came a small voice in front of her. She immediately recognized the faint shape of a doe-eyed red-headed girl slowly come closer. Her form flickered in and out of visibility, as the only light source available were holes in the ceiling that allowed in some of the street-lights' gift.
The worried look in the other girls' eye made her halt before she took up the little girl into her arms.
"Where is he?" she asked quietly.
More scattered whispers, though her eyes were adjusted enough that she could see their forms shift on the walls.
"I-Isa . . . " she stepped closer.
"Where?!" her voice broke, she couldn't help it. Her lips pursed tightly.
The girl seemed at a loss for words, instead looking over to the back of the dirt-floored building, her arms hanging at her sides as she shifted.
In disbelief, the abrupt newcomer stepped to the sight that she was sure would have made her heart stop, if she hadn't been so frightened.
A particular strand of moonlight through a particularly large fissure in the steel shed the light on something that was obviously placed there with intention. There was a pounding in her ears. It looked like an offering of a god--
It was a body.
/ . . . No!/
She sprinted immediately to it's side, noticing with panic a very large needle, worn around the edges as if it were either well-used, chewed on, or perhaps both. It was laid loosely in an unmoving hand that she could already see was turning slightly blue in the moonlight.
His mouth hung slack and dry, his eyes were shut gently and his expression was only partially there. But he was unmistakably dead.
/Dead./ she shut her eyes.
She couldn't take this anymore. Just . . . everything. It was still horrible enough to be some sick nightmare--but deeper she knew that such a thought was wishful thinking.
It was as if the dam broke.
Laying her head gently on his bony chest, she sobbed to herself and to her life. Her mouth dribbled nothings, the most sorrowful nothings that came to her mind as she slowly unwound in a complete and utter breakdown.
Soon there were others coming around her with unreadable expressions donning their darkened faces. Others joined the melancholy symphony of her choked sobs and meaningless babbling behind her tangled hair, which had long since slipped in front of her face.
Her face let out a stream of unstoppable things that made no sense. Again, she was at a point where she couldn't blink, couldn't see what little she had go away for even the briefest second.
The little girl returned, fastening her too-thin arms around her waist in an attempt to share the pain she was so young to comprehend. She cried harder.
Somehow, through the mindless ramblings of a broken heart and damaged mind whispered something with tone that made each person in the building look up in shock.
They knew there was something different about their suburban peer, that had something to do with the mysterious boarding school she had attended for the past five years or so. When she sang, they could hear the peculiar ringing beyond her projected words and passionate feelings.
Even now, when she was half-mad with a grief that none of them could halt, the resonating rung sharply, bleeding profusely from her voice.
"Away . . . he's gone awa-a-a-a-ay . . . away . . . he's gone awa-a-a-a- ay."
It echoed. And all was silent besides her muffled crying into the limp boy's ratty shirt.
"He's gone a . . . he's gone a--"
"Isabella?" came a slightly slurred voice, shaking what she held on so desperately "Isabella, why are you crying?"
Her sobs halted suddenly, but she didn't open her eyes, wouldn't allow herself the hope that possibly--
"It's not like I'm dead, y'know." A laugh, a cough.
Her gaze shot open to oddly shining pale eyes, winking cleverly as she had always remembered. He smiled widely.
"I was wonderin' when you'd show up."
------
Luna sneezed, rubbing her nose delicately as it burned from extended exposure to the Egyptian sun. She could feel the stain of the sunlight all over her cheeks, even as her father placed an anti-burn charm on her before they left the muggle hotel that morning.
There just wasn't a way around it, she supposed with a slight pout behind the cream-shade scarf protecting her face from the dust. And the sun, so her subconscious added, still recalling their tour-guides' heavily accented speech from the morning. Actually, he was the one who handed her the scarf in the first place, disregarding the faint smell of incense saturated into it from it's life in the Giza marketplace.
She sneezed again. Oh, such an opportune moment to find out that she was allergic to most varieties of incense!
The fair-haired british girl scowled when she looked about for her other main point of annoyance.
However, there was no sign of her father's matching complexion anywhere near where she stood. Her shoulders slackened in defeat, her wide eyes dulled with weariness.
It was quite easy to separate from someone in the bustling swarm of turban and veil-wearing locals, arguing over various checked prices and laughing with each other as old friends. For the most part, even with the arguing, the dark eyes she could sneak a glance at were crinkled in high amusement.
She stalked and wove her path through the numerous vendors around the area, becoming increasingly worried as time ticked on. 'Worried' was not a usual state for the eccentric Ravenclaw, but it really WAS a last resort in her situation.
She coughed, suddenly catching a breath-full of smoky air from a grill vendor.
Luna waved her arms in front of her to banish the smoke from her immediate repertory system. Gasping for air and blinking her reddening eyes at the sudden onslaught, she stumbled away blindly as her feet placed themselves in unsure steps that must have had her bump accidentally into at least five people/things.
Finally, she halted her steps, still coughing, yet they were stilling now in her throat. Her eyes opened.
Looking around in surprise, she supposed that she was in the shadow of some sort of massive clay building. She gazed upward with a shield of a hand protecting her from the sun. Her suppositions were confirmed mildly, but she couldn't help but frown at her findings.
Where was she? And where had all the people gone?
She blinked. Indeed, there were no vendors, no customers, not even constables! Just dozens of abandoned stands and numerous fliers, wrappers, napkins and other assorted pieces of trash that danced with unsettled grace around the street.
It was very quiet . . . she gulped . . . almost a little too quiet.
"Have you lost your way?" came a deep voice from behind her.
Utterly scared out of her wits, she whirled around, heart pumping wildly and making her nostrils burn, meeting the gaze of a large man who was staring at her oddly. She resisted the urge to clutch her chest and yell something obscene.
Involuntary, panicked things twitched around in her mind. He was a pretty big guy, and she would have no chance with hand-to-bitch-fight combat. But . . . that letter regarding magic over the summer holidays did hint to special cases . . .
She breathed again, realizing with relief that she would be okay if worse came to worse.
"I won't hurt you . . . " he stepped forward.
She took a step back, eyes flashing suspiciously.
The mysterious man sighed.
"I can lead you to any place in the city that you desire, if" the preposition hung in the air "you let me show you something."
"What is it?"
She couldn't help but sound a little wary of his request, but she was hopelessly lost, and though his accent didn't point to it he seemed like a local. His sweeping blue robes and matching turban, as well as a scarf around his face that was identical to her own, were exactly like the outfits she had seen the whole day. He was on the thin side, but he was also much taller than her and looked like a character most people would underestimate.
He reached inside his outer cloak to a collection of sword and dagger hilts hanging from the sash on his waist. They glittered with jewels and precious metals, all looking quite impressive and expensive, but there was one that stood out. Immediately, though she had no idea how she came to think of something so assuredly.
Against her controllable will, she was almost hypnotized as he pulled out that particular hilt for her to see. It was noticeably fashioned in a different style than the other daggers; the handle was round and a deep ebony, only scarcely woven with delicate silver threads.
He stared at it for a moment as well. Then, with a movement reminiscent of a shrug, he tossed it to her.
Even though it was the size of a dagger, she was surprised at how light it was, though it was perfectly balanced in her fragile grip.
"Draw the sword." His voice came, but it seemed oddly faraway and weak. Still, she obeyed within her trance, grasping the handle with an assured curl and pulling instinctively.
It didn't startle her that though the sheathed version seemed little more than a dagger, the drawn version was at least six feet long, forming a deadly slight-curve and sharpened on one side.
Her jaw was open under it's own accord, spellbound by the weapon's presence. The balance of the sword caught her attention more than anything, the perfect balance, and she herself also seemed more balanced than she had ever been before.
/Complete./ it was the only way to describe the feeling.
"Ah," the man spoke up fondly "it seems as though I have made the right choice."
"What is that?" her voice was calm, unlike ever before.
No one answered, she looked up.
The street was deserted again. Luna blinked back into reality, looking around wildly for the mysterious man, but with no luck. She frowned at the thought that he had left her with such a perfect sword.
Her eyebrows were raised as she tucked the hilt clumsily into her own sash, pondering his lost, when she suddenly remembered.
Relocating her temper again, Luna's face suddenly contorted in a sudden flare of anger.
"Oh, that's nice! Just leave me here why don't you! I thought you said you were going to take me back!" She kicked a nearby stand, before she realized that offending such a sturdy, inanimate object really hurt and--
A . . . cat?
Curious and adopting her generally flabbergasted look that her Hogwarts peers knew so well, she stepped closer. It ran away daintily.
"H-hey!" she was glad no one was present to watch her stumble clumsily as she scampered behind the feline.
"Wait!"
The two entities disappeared around a street-corner.
AN -
I'm startled at my own general odd-ness O.O
Wow, that was a really really long chapter for me. I haven't decided if I want such long interludes as my standard chapter, or if I just want many many little short/cute ones that really make no sense. I dunno . . . it seemed to work for "Misery Amiss" but hell, that story's just plain WIERD.
lol
Erm, I'm not so sure on the pacing of some of these parts; especially Draco and Isabella's. I admit to be very impatient about getting those parts done since they sorta drug on and on--but I'm still not sure if I wrote enough to actually have successful suspense. Gah, I'm horrid at these sort of things!
Tell me what you think about it, please? ; ; I don't even care if you say you 'fucking hate!!' my story or whatever . . . I just want to get better
Although words of encouragement are always welcome. Heehee, I've come a long way since I've first started writing.
Thank you for reading so far!
giggleplex