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Just a couple short...blurbs...written over the past week while at work...
He could remember the first time he had seen her: he had been eleven and she had been ten. She was among a group of them, all with blazing red hair and all freckled like no one he'd seen before. She followed them all silently, her big brown following them as they each made their way through the barrier, and then watching as they each, in turn, disappeared onto the train. She stared after him a bit longer, watching through windows and trying to catch a glimpse of him as he walked by each. For the moments when he had glanced back out the windows, she turned away quickly, trying to hide that she had been staring. He smiled, thinking her shyness was cute in a little kid sort of way, even though he was only a year older.
He had seen her again the following summer, the situation similar to before, and she stuttered and stammered and flitted away whenever she caught sight of him, and he chuckled at the admiration she seemed to have. It was nice to know that he was at least being acknowledged instead of simply being mistreated. This time was a bit different though, as the trip to Diagon Alley and the accidental meeting with the Malfoys seemed to change her. Her stuttering ways seemed to disappear and he noticed a force in her that he hadn't recognised before. It was only a fleeting though, for after that moment he lost all thought of her, and didn't really see her again until the day they left for the train to Hogwarts, though this time instead of following them with her eyes, she walked along with them and followed as they boarded the train. The year was full of surprises, and in the end, he found himself saving her life, and feeling a bond that he could have with no one else. Now, he was grateful for her presence for reasons more than just her seemingly childish nervousness.
There is a story that follows her around wherever she goes. It is a tale of bravery. It is a tale of sorrow. It is her history; it is her reason for being. It is woven into the raven tresses that frame her no-longer gentle face. Eyes that were once a soft, powder blue have transformed into dark pools of midnight sky. Centuries of physical training and conditioning reflect from the curves of her glistening calves; her legs, toned and muscular, carry with them a tale of hardship and suffering. She stands, tall, regal, proud, the whites of her eyes practically hidden as she squints in the sun. Something flashes and she takes off, leaping from her perch in the trees to the flat landing that sits hidden halfway up the tallest tree. The scent of a thousand battles strays in her wake, a story of their own lingering just behind her every step. She is a living testament to her people, the anchor to which years of tradition hold steadfast.
Her toned and loosely-clad body crouches low to the ground; she raises her head only to sniff the wind. Sharp and gleaming in the moonlight, her eyes search the horizon for a glimpse of what she thought she saw. Night has fallen, and suddenly the ever-patient coils of crouched muscle spring into action, propelling her from her position on the ground and sending her into a feline-like sprint, the trees blurring together as she moves among them with determined precision. She prowls like a predator, even though she is the prey.
He could remember the first time he had seen her: he had been eleven and she had been ten. She was among a group of them, all with blazing red hair and all freckled like no one he'd seen before. She followed them all silently, her big brown following them as they each made their way through the barrier, and then watching as they each, in turn, disappeared onto the train. She stared after him a bit longer, watching through windows and trying to catch a glimpse of him as he walked by each. For the moments when he had glanced back out the windows, she turned away quickly, trying to hide that she had been staring. He smiled, thinking her shyness was cute in a little kid sort of way, even though he was only a year older.
He had seen her again the following summer, the situation similar to before, and she stuttered and stammered and flitted away whenever she caught sight of him, and he chuckled at the admiration she seemed to have. It was nice to know that he was at least being acknowledged instead of simply being mistreated. This time was a bit different though, as the trip to Diagon Alley and the accidental meeting with the Malfoys seemed to change her. Her stuttering ways seemed to disappear and he noticed a force in her that he hadn't recognised before. It was only a fleeting though, for after that moment he lost all thought of her, and didn't really see her again until the day they left for the train to Hogwarts, though this time instead of following them with her eyes, she walked along with them and followed as they boarded the train. The year was full of surprises, and in the end, he found himself saving her life, and feeling a bond that he could have with no one else. Now, he was grateful for her presence for reasons more than just her seemingly childish nervousness.
There is a story that follows her around wherever she goes. It is a tale of bravery. It is a tale of sorrow. It is her history; it is her reason for being. It is woven into the raven tresses that frame her no-longer gentle face. Eyes that were once a soft, powder blue have transformed into dark pools of midnight sky. Centuries of physical training and conditioning reflect from the curves of her glistening calves; her legs, toned and muscular, carry with them a tale of hardship and suffering. She stands, tall, regal, proud, the whites of her eyes practically hidden as she squints in the sun. Something flashes and she takes off, leaping from her perch in the trees to the flat landing that sits hidden halfway up the tallest tree. The scent of a thousand battles strays in her wake, a story of their own lingering just behind her every step. She is a living testament to her people, the anchor to which years of tradition hold steadfast.
Her toned and loosely-clad body crouches low to the ground; she raises her head only to sniff the wind. Sharp and gleaming in the moonlight, her eyes search the horizon for a glimpse of what she thought she saw. Night has fallen, and suddenly the ever-patient coils of crouched muscle spring into action, propelling her from her position on the ground and sending her into a feline-like sprint, the trees blurring together as she moves among them with determined precision. She prowls like a predator, even though she is the prey.
