Retrospect

[Diomedea Rosier]

Diomedea was outside, in the yard, wearing her school’s uniform that slightly cold March’s morning, during which most students were enjoying their time inside the castle, or preparing for their end-of-year examinations. She had had nightmares lately, and sometimes she wondered why she had done it; he had only been eleven years old. Sometimes she wondered why she had done anything actually, anything at all; why she had turned out the way she had, and why she continued being in this same way, without doing anything to change, unable to do anything, weak in this matter, what she most feared.

She stood on the cold bench, but her clothes were warm, and she could not feel it. The wind had strengthened that day (the weather at times was so abnormal), and made her untied hair fly around herself. She was wearing a cotton black sweater, with a same jacket, and a deep green scarf, black trousers, and white boots. Her face was white, but not expressionless; not like a corpse; it showed feeling. Unmoving, as she stared at nowhere in particular.

[Ayrle R. Woodward]

When a group of people choose to remain indoors for a certain period of time, portions of the group begin to grow antsy and irritable, often without even realizing they were doing it. A certain selection was particularly abrasive, and had Ayrle climbing to the tallest towers to find peace from them: they were the younger Slytherins, who seemed to search for him. To the young Hufflepuff it seemed as though they posted themselves at all intersections waiting for a muggle-born to harass on sight. There was no relief indoors so he went back to his dorm, put some warm clothes on, grabbed his sketch book, and dodged through the maze of his enemies until he finally pushed through the doors into snowy wonderland of the Hogwarts grounds.

It wasn't so bad outside; the snow was piling at a respectable height and the light wind didn't blind the eye with falling flakes. The sun was shining in the distance, reflecting off of the frosted hills and dips of the landscape like a softer, still ocean. Ayrle was warm enough in his long, draping yellow and black scarf, long robes, boots, and gloves. He would probably be able to get a few sketches in before his pink ears turned red and his fingers too numb to move.

The mop of ginger hair was lowered, watching his feet as he picked his way to the courtyard. It would make a good place to sketch, because it just looked so cool and old, and would help block some of the wind. But the snow had piled up a little around the perimeter, and he really didn't pay attention to who was there, or what they were doing.

[Diomedea Rosier]

And there he was, all of a sudden. Perhaps life was being amused by such games; however, these were not her own games. But being with Tristain made her think more of her actions, and of various thoughts she made during times of anger and flashes of hatred. After all, he was only eleven years old. And Izabella Malvae had been blind. Diomedea really was an awful person if you looked at it that way, but Tristain had the power to make her believe that she had something else in her, something warm and benevolent, something which hid inside her heart and which had been forced to be veiled due to the cruelty of the world; a deep sense of sacred humanity, enveloped by a black veil of inhumanity that strangled and threatened to drown her.

She watched him closely, and did not speak, until he came close to her. He did not seem to notice she was there. “What is your name?” she asked him, her voice emotionless, cold as the wind, but that was only a bluff; she wanted to see his reaction, after what she had done to him. He looked so small, and innocent; but she was not, neither.

[Ayrle R. Woodward]

The atmosphere was chilly, but nothing could compare to the familiar voice that now accompanied and narrated his nightmares. Caught in slow-motion, the petite ginger slowly lifted his head. At first he noticed her feet, as was appropriate because they were the closest to the ground. His heart rate began it’s increased tempo, and his palms started to sweat where they clenched his sketchbook. Brown eyes widened to the whites as he continued leaning up, and like a deer he stood tensely in the snow when he finally met a familiar face. Pretty, but so distant and emotionless she seemed like the walking dead.

A living zombie that ate your pain.

“M-m-m-my n-n-n-name?” He stuttered. Ayrle took a step back in fear, but the uneven ground took him and he fell backwards into the damp, cold grass. “A-A-A-A-” His cheeks flushed in embarrassment. There was no reason to be scared, since Ted and Cali would help him if he got hurt again. “Ayrle Wo-Woodw-ward!” Okay, so there was plenty reason to be scared. Under his cloak his body began trembling and it wasn’t from the chill of the cold ground beneath him. Even his face paled slightly, like he’d seen a ghost in the muggle world. After all these months of avoiding her, he managed to end up alone with her outside.

Slim fingers clutched his sketchbook. Please oh please oh please don’t let this be bad…