Charming

February 12th, 1895 - Near the Art Classroom

“Oh, no…” her whisper is soft, disbelieving as she recounts. The number does not change. “…oh no, no—”

Her feet took flight before her brain could catch up, her panicking, fluttering heart giving them wings; she was out the common room door in a few strides, thoughts picking up pace with her feet like she’s riffling rapidly through the pages in a paperback, trying to remember where—

Oh, she stops, pivots, and takes another hallway. The room near the art classroom – where the same-name club had held a small meeting; she must have left one of her journals there.

By the time she retraced her path all the way down from the Ravenclaw tower, her breathing was rushed and her cheeks a touch flushed – though whether it was from her frenzied hurry through the corridors or her own panic is anyone’s guess (even hers). When she reached the classroom in question, she halted herself with a hand on the door frame…

Please, she thought, taking a moment, unsure if whether she was hoping her journal would still be there, full-stop, or also that no one had found it; maybe both. Her finger tips turned white at either prospect, giving herself another moment to catch her breath.

Steeling herself, she stepped the threshold with a click of her shoes—

And found only one of her wishes fulfilled.

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Anne missed Art terribly. She loved to draw and liked oil paints when she could access them, but her schedule didn't allow for such things anymore. Between clubs, Quidditch, and actually caring about her grades, Anne was a bit too busy for empty hours of Art class. Not that it really kept her from practicing. Anne's Astronomy charts at COMC sketches were becoming masterpieces, her need for a creative outlet still strong.

She'd filtered into the classroom as Art Club left, Anne ignoring everyone, picking a corner in the classroom and making herself comfortable. She pulled out her sketch book and a pencil and let her mind run free. Or, at least she did until something under a chair. Never one to ignore a curiosity, Anne reached under the desk and found a sketchbook. As she thumbed through the book looking for a name, she heard footsteps at the door. Looking up, Anne granted the new arrival a small smile. "Afternoon, Miss Griffith. Take a look at these." Anne had zero qualms about showing off the drawings in the book, they were interesting, different. Why not share them? Certainly the artist would be pleased.

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Her comparative study of dragons in their various sub-species – mostly theoretically, of course, given she has only ever seen the variety of the beasts behind the covers of tomes – stared back at Nell from the smudged paper, depicting wingspans, head shapes, horn variation, spine differences and so forth.

The binding on the book was just as familiar to her the back of her own hand: worn, obviously well-loved, but in a style that it was clearly foreign make (and not easily mistaken for a school tome) – a rare Christmas gift from one the... nicer members of Nell’s maternal family during a visit many, many years back; she would recognize it anywhere. She was distantly glad, as the Slytherin held it aloft, that she’d never gotten about to putting her name in it. She always meant to, it’s just she so rarely let her personal notebooks out of her sight that outright claiming any of them hardly seemed necessary.

Now, as the rough sketches and equally mediocre, nigh illegible scribbles around them stared back at her – the majority referenced from various academic books in the library on the matter, the few illustrations within them painstakingly studied and transferred – all she could see was its flaws and how painfully obvious it was she’d copied several bits and pieces; it seemed, in spite of her persistence in taking charcoal to parchment, her art always felt horridly lacking in originality and substance when shown under the light of day.

The two urges, one to rescue one of her few, precious possessions and the other fleeing down the hall to avoid the possible (maybe, inevitable) discovery of ownership, warred with each other as she stood rooted to the spot. Throat feeling abruptly tight, the older girl swallowed (and if her grip on the doorframe tightened until her knuckles blanched, then that had absolutely nothing to do with the current situation a foot).

All of the swirling, spiraling thoughts in her mind were why it took her far too long to reply to the fifth year: "...o-oh... h-hello, uh—Miss Mooney..."

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