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A trip to the owlery  PV   Closed 

Ava was feeling great. She loved being at Hogwarts, things were going great, she met so many great people... the girl couldn't feel better. She was actually going to the owlery to write and send some letter along with reading the ones she got. The Slytherin looked around with a smile on her face, deciding that she will take a break. She was nowhere specific, just in a corridor. Except for her and a few armors, there was no one there.

"Good morning, sir!" she greeted one of the armors cheerfully, knowing they could move and or talk back if they wanted to. The armor nodded back in a greeting as she leaned against a wall and sat down. She smiled, putting the stuff she brought with herself down next to her - some parchment, some ink, and of course a quill - and her cat sat down next to her as well. The girl started petting him mindlessly, putting the envelopes in her other hand along with the writing supplies and smiled at her cat. 

Someone entered the corridor. Ava got up and walked up to them. The person - a boy - was a bit startled; he probably didn't acknowledge Ava. "Hello," she said, extending her hand towards him. "Ava Silver, a proud pure-blood & Slytherin at your service." she smiled. Her mood didn't change - she was the happiest person in the world at that moment.

faceclaim: Yvonne Michel |
STA: 3 | AGI: 3 | STR: 5 | CON: 4 | ARCP: 8 | ACC: 7 |

A trip to the owlery  PV   Closed 

The walk down the corridor, despite the students milling about and the soft sounds of chatter and laughter being shared, seem awfully oppressive and deathly to Vincent; he could feel himself withering slightly inside as he clutched an opened letter his hand.

His heart was racing wildly, he couldn't quite steady his hand and he is getting somewhat dizzy from either a mixture of his racing heart and increasing anxiety; but what can he do really? No amount of worrying and fear would change the words written clearly in ink on the paper, and no amount of hoping will change the past.

Vincent was staring down at the letter in his hand, unsure of what to think of the content; he wasn't even in Hogwarts for long before his father had written to him telling him that the man is staying in the St Mungo's Hospital of all places. Even just entertaining the thought of his proud father willingly going to the hospital was-well, Vincent noted with increasing anxiety that his hands were still shaking despite his best attempts of comforting himself.

'Surely, those healers at the hospital can take care of him better' He told himself, 'Grandmother and grandmother would visit him, right?' He worried his lip, but he still couldn't direct his train of thought towards something more positive because-

His father's condition is ever worsening and there is nothing he can do about it.

The longer he mulled over that, the deeper he fell into the seemingly endless spiral of 'what if's and mounting frustration over his helplessness; but then again whining over it is never going to help him, will it? That is a surprisingly cynical thought, given who Vincent is but at that moment, he believed wholeheartedly in that.

”Hello,” Vincent was briefly startled out of his thoughts; he noted with increasing alarm that he seems to have wandered into a rather deserted corridor for there aren’t anyone else about except him and this Slytherin girl.

Blinking rapidly, his brain struggled to pull itself away from the dark thoughts in his mind to compute what the girl just said.

Ava Silver, a proud, pureblood and Slytherin at your service.”

He would have been aghast that his first thought was, ‘that was awfully haughty isn’t it?’ and he was. Vincent was startled by his thoughts and immediately blinked, ‘No, no, she was just being cheerful-she is really cheerful, yeah.’

“Ah, um, Vincent Eastender, half-blood and Hufflepuff…?” He said hesitantly in return; he heard rumors that some purebloods still look down on half-bloods but he reminded himself that he must not judge somebody based on first impression.

“Um, you look happy?” He asked, but his words lack his usual tone; he only sounded slightly tired and he seems to get more fatigued the longer he stood there.

Stress-that's me. Procrastination, that is also me.