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◄✩༄*∗"My mind's scarred but other than that, great, thanks."∗*༄✩►
☼
◄✩༄*∗Hey, oh, here she goes,
either a little too loud
or a little too close,
Got a hurricane at the
back of her throat
and she thinks she's
made of candy∗*༄✩►
— Candy | Robbie Williams
【 ✧ ☾⋆☼⋆☽ ✧ 】
TODAY, AUGUST 23RD, just like any other summer day in the countryside of England, had been perfectly normal for Y/N Andilet. The just-right sun kissed the bit of skin exposed by her sundress, soft grass rippled around her basking figure, and the lake by her parents' tiny cottage winked at her with quiet promises. The air was salty and floral, a combination of which Y/N had associated with home; she'd even found a perfume to encapsulate that glimpse of her childhood that could always put her to ease. It didn't help that her best friend had told her several times that he'd liked the salty and floral scent she seemed to don, even without her perfume, which had only motivated her to keep that same scent for four years now.
The coconut-like smell of sunscreen joined the salty air as Y/N reapplied her spf 50, considering she couldn't magic herself not to burn (was that even a thing?). She sighed dreamily as she flopped back onto the soft grass, the inside of her eyelids a bright red as she closed them to return to her nap. She'd been dreaming again, making up scenarios that would never happen; she flushed as she thought about the scene she'd been creating in her head, an exciting daydream that she knew would never be. Oh well, it didn't hurt to imagine, right? Y/N settled herself to drift away once more, until something large, grey, and feathery bulleted into her stomach and knocked the breath from her.
The black maine coon cat relaxing next to Y/N pounced in a split second; tackling the object off of her and into the grass, the attempt to protect her owner was noble, yet vaguely feeble. It were as though the she-cat were hesitant to hurt a creature, but that was precisely because Y/N's father and herself liked to take care of magical creatures, so any of the she-cat's accomplishments were met with unamused frowns and long reprimands.
Painful hoots came from the object and, recognizing it as Errol, the Weasley's owl, Y/N scrambled up, blades of grass clinging to her backside and mop of H/C hair. She wobbled for a second—it hadn't occurred to her that sunbathing for hours on end might just relax her a little bit too much—before reaching for Errol, whose sides were being pinched by wild claws and already had a couple of feathers ripped from him. He was already balding, but Y/N very much would like to send Errol back to the Weasleys with at least a couple of feathers still attached.
