Julie Stone was a regular girl; she lived in an orphanage, had some friends, and every now and then would bang her head against the wall due to stress. . . . Normal!
Anyway, all her life Julie never seemed to quite fit in. She loved it, but her life...
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𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒔
────── *•. ⚡︎ .•*──────
Hermione laid in Ron's bed on her stomach, her feet dangling in the air as she flipped through her magazine.
Meanwhile, Ron was pacing up and down, degrading the hardwood floor. This may or may not have to do with the fact that Hermione told him Harry would probably be pissed at them and they would get shouted at. Hence why, Ron was now overthinking any possible outcomes and prepping himself for a fight with Harry—which, mind you, was utterly absurd in Hermione's mind; nevertheless, his pacing was giving rhythm to her reading.
The door of the gloomy room opened, prompting Hermione to look up and smile at her friend. Harry was standing in the doorway looking relieved to see them and simultaneously with a face that told Hermione he wanted to bang their heads against a window.
Ron immediately stopped his pacing and carefully approached Harry as if he was a ticking time bomb. "Harry! How come you're here so soon?—Uh—I mean, what's up, mate?" he awkwardly asked, scratching the back of his neck side, glancing at Hermione, who was trying her best not to laugh at the scene. "Hermione said you'd be cross with us. I mean—are you?"
Harry opened his mouth to answer—probably to start screaming, Hermione reckoned—but was cut off by a soft whooshing sound and something white soared from the top of a dark wardrobe, gently landing on Harry's shoulders.
"Hedwig!" Harry greeted his owl. The snowy owl clicked her beak and nibbled his ear affectionately as Harry stroked her feathers.
"She's been in a right state," said Ron, and Hermione nodded, not taking her eyes off the article she was in, "Pecked us half to death when she brought your last letters, look at this—"
He showed Harry the index finger of his right hand, which supported a half-healed but clearly deep cut.
"Oh yeah," Harry said. "Sorry about that, but I wanted answers, you know. . . ."
"We wanted to give them to you, mate," said Ron. "Hermione even sent you coded messages — but apparently you didn't get them—Dumbledore made us—"
"—swear not to tell me," said Harry.
There was a strained silence that allowed Hermione to properly finish the article, she folded the corner of the page and sat up straight on the bed preparing herself for the impending shouting of the hormonal fifteen-year-old.
"Old Dumbles seemed to think it was best—I didn't—hence the coded messages," said Hermione with a shrug.
