Push and pull. It was all the ocean ever did, and Charlotte Hawthorne knew the dance well. Foamy waves lapped up her legs as she sat on the shore, body half submerged in the water. Wind tore at her freshly cut hair, a project she had done earlier that morning. Salty water weighed the short strands down, yet she knew if she sat there long enough the breeze would dry them in no time. She was a perfect mess as sand coated her body. It would take days for her to fully wash the grains out of her scalp.

Not that she really minded what her appearance looked like. She was all alone on her secluded island. Still close enough to home yet far enough away that she could breathe easier. Though, the island was far from being devoid of life. Patches of tall grass stood out in various spots in the sand which created the perfect cover for seagulls to build their nests. Tide pools rested closer to the shore, nestled in a group of rocks where she could faintly make out a waving starfish.

And then there was her, the young fourteen year old, basking in the summer sun. Amber eyes focused on nothing but the sparkling waves in front of her. Off in the distance she could make out the vague shape of her home. The lime green color wasn't exactly difficult to miss. She had asked her uncle time and time again to paint it a more flattering color, yet the house itself seemed too stubborn to take new paint.

Though she often visited that island without reason, that time she came with a goal. A band of netting hung across her torso as if she wore a sash. She was quick to pull it off of her body as she stood to her feet, swaying slightly with the waves pulling at her feet. Then, she began her hunt.

There wasn't a single inch of the shore that was left unscanned by her eyes as she walked along the waves. Any shell or sand dollar that poked out of the sand was promptly snatched and placed in Charlotte's netted pouch. By the time she made a full lap around the island, she had found three whole sand dollars, four whole scallop shells, one auger shell, and two tulip shells. All of them were carefully put away before the girl quickly wrapped the netting around her body again, taking care to secure it tightly.

With a final sigh, Charlotte breathed in as much of the salty air that she could before wading into the crashing waves in front of her.

It didn't take long to swim back to her home, especially if the waves were calm or the wind wasn't bad. However, every now and then the girl found herself stopping midway through her journey. She would float on her back and stare up at the sky. The waves would gently rock her up and down much like a mother does with her infant. Water would plug her ears, muting every sound around her. She could float in bliss and stare up at the clouds, or on occasion, the stars.

Charlotte could afford no such luxury this time around though, as she had a mission she was keen on completing. Soon enough she found herself on the shores that laid just outside her home. She stood for a moment on the sandy shore as she took time to run her fingers through her soaking, tangled hair. Luckily the wind made quick work of drying her clothes. Once the dripping stopped, she rushed up the stone steps that lead to the door.

The interior of Charlotte Hawthorne's home was much easier on the eyes than the outside was. Deep, moody browns covered the walls which were accented by deep greens in the drapes and chairs. The salty ocean air carried into the house through the open living room window. However, the strong scent of coffee threatened to completely overwhelm it.

"Good morning, sweetheart," a voice spoke from the far corner of the room.

The voice belonged to a man, who sat comfortably in an old, creaking rocking chair. Disheveled brown hair threatened to spill over his eyes as he sipped his mug of coffee. It appeared as if he had at least attempted to put on well looking clothes that morning, but Charlotte couldn't help but chuckle at his uneven collar.

"You should be sleeping," she said, turning into the kitchen. "You got home awfully late last night."

The man chuckled, his voice groggy with exhaustion. "Don't tell me you were still awake."

"I went to sleep shortly after."

All the man could do was sigh as he took another sip of the liquid in his cup. It was more bitter than he preferred. Ran out of creamer the day before and he had forgotten to pick up more on the way home. Still, he drank it as if it was the only thing keeping him alive.

"Oh, to be young. I remember a time when I used to swim laps in the ocean on three hours of sleep," he reminisced, although mostly sarcastically.

"Oh please, you're not even that old yet," Charlotte rolled her eyes.

"Yet."

Charlotte removed the netting from over her torso where she began to carefully pull her shells out one by one. Then, she turned on the kitchen sink where she washed away any sand or lingering ocean water. When she finished, she returned to the living room with the shells in hand, along with a hand towel.

"Get a good haul?" the man asked.

Nodding, Charlotte laid out the shells on top of the hand towel. It only took up a small fraction of the coffee table, yet they easily drew in all the attention. Each of them were lined up perfectly with one another, still glistening from their wash.

"I plan on sending a few in a letter to a friend," she explained before quickly vanishing out of the room.

Smiling, the man leaned forward, fingers gently brushing against the shells laid out in front of him. They were small, dainty little things. Something that could only survive for so long out in the ocean before the waves would shatter them against stone.

"Hands off," Charlotte playfully warned as she returned to the room, parchment in hand. "You'll taint them."

Leaning back in his chair, the man could only shake his head and smile. "Is that any way to speak to your uncle?"

Sitting on the floor, Charlotte put her piece of parchment on top of the coffee table where she then began writing.

"Sorry, Uncle Greggory, would you please be so kind to keep your hands off my property?" she humorously mocked.

"Nevermind. I preferred it when you were insulting me."

His niece remained silent as she began to write away at her letter. Her quill moved slowly and carefully, each letter just as important as the last. He watched her carefully, tired eyes attempting to focus on the scene in front of him. Until suddenly his eyes narrowed, and his head tilted to the side.

"Is that parchment from my office?" he asked.

Charlotte continued writing.

"Maybe."

"You little thief," he chuckled. Leaning forward, Greg sat his coffee mug on a coaster on the table, where he then leaned to grab something from off of the floor. "I noticed that's not the first page you've borrowed either, so I picked this up the other day. Figured you'd prefer to sketch on your own paper."

He held out a simple, leather bound sketchbook. This caught Charlotte's attention, and she paused her writing for a moment before snickering. "Great set up. Pretending like this book is beneficial for you in some way and also refusing to wrap it… still… doesn't make it any less of a birthday present. If you wanted to conceal your true intentions, you should have waited until tomorrow."

Greg paused for a moment before sighing. He placed the sketchbook on the table next to the seashells. "You're too intuitive."

"It's not intuition, you just make it easy," the girl retorted.

Not even a moment later she finished her letter. It was a short and sweet letter, very to the point. Charlotte hardly ever wasted her time with theatrics when it came to writing. Nearly four years later and writing with a quill was still somewhat new for her.

"Speaking of your birthday-" Greg continued.

"I'd rather we didn't," Charlotte playfully interrupted.

"- your grandparents invited me to dinner tonight. They said you could come, if you so wished."

The girl didn't even bother to spare him a glance before she began folding her letter into an envelope. The seashells followed shortly after, where it was then sealed.

"They're such a bother," she muttered. "If only they had pretended to care about me a decade ago."

"I'll tell them you regretfully must decline due to being locked up in Azkaban for petty parchment theft," Greg said, slowly bringing himself to his feet. "I, however, cannot afford the same luxury."

Suddenly, as if summoned, a white-faced barn owl flew in through the window where it dropped a newspaper on the coffee table, nearly knocking over Greg's mug. Charlotte couldn't help but squeak as she dodged out of the owl's way. The bird then perched itself on the windowsill with a coo.

"Punctual as ever, Duffy," Greg greeted the owl.

"Perfect timing, too. Just finished my letter," Charlotte smiled.

She stood from her spot on the ground and quickly made her way over to the owl. First she greeted him with a few strokes on the top of his head. Really, the bird looked rather indifferent about the petting. Charlotte seemed to enjoy it more than the creature itself. She then handed her finished letter to him, where he quickly took it in his mouth before flying out the window once more.

"Ireland and Bulgaria are facing off in the Quidditch World Cup this year," Greg spoke, taking the paper into his hands.

"That game is so painfully boring. I don't understand how you enjoy it," Charlotte exclaimed as she plopped herself down on the sofa.

All Greg could do was huff. "I just keep up on the stats at this point. If I were younger I'd probably care a bit more."

"One of my friends is going this year," she said as her uncle tossed the paper back onto the coffee table. "She got invited by Cedric Diggory."

"Sounds like all your friends are already going. Are you sure you don't want to join them?"

Charlotte was… annoyed. Perhaps that wasn't the right word. But her uncle's words weren't exactly unexpected. He always took any moment he could to try and get her to interact with others. She'd often joke that he was trying to get rid of her. Really, she knew he was just worried about her.

"I'd rather attend my grandparent's dinner tonight."

"I think you need to reorganize your priorities," Greg responded with a yawn.

Then, the poor, tired man began to wander off toward the kitchen, where Charlotte could hear him begin to make breakfast. Her eyes flickered around the room, where they ultimately landed on the Daily Prophet.

Just as her uncle said, Ireland really was facing Bulgaria in the finals. That fact was impossible to miss as it took up nearly the entirety of the front page. That news didn't concern her any, and she found her eyes skimming over the side columns. There were only two for that day. The top one mentioned something about how St. Mungo's hospital prepared for potential injuries and jinxes that the World Cup was bound to bring, as it did every year around the world.

The second column she almost completely missed. The title of it wasn't something she wanted to linger on at first. Just some tragedy that some poor family had to experience. Something she saw every day being exploited in newspapers. But the very moment her eyes left the title, they flickered right back. She read it again, and again, burning the words into her retinas:

Jean and Anais Morissette Found Dead at their Residential Home in Paris

Push and pull. It was a dance Charlotte Hawthorne knew well. Yet no matter how many times she danced, she couldn't ever get used to the sinking feeling in her stomach that plagued her before the beginning of the performance.