The Prince Of Curses h.s.

Thirty seven

I ran through town, not daring myself to stop or look back. 

A rumble swept through the kingdom, one that shook buildings, birds, and trees. I had no doubt it came from Harry. The sun was coming up, light breaking and scattering on the cobblestone below. The still morning air burned my lungs with each sharp breath I took.

My legs were moving at an impossibly fast pace. My hands bundled bits of my dress. I was thankful it was too early for the streets to be crowded with people. I probably looked like a maniac right now, running for my life.  

I didn't know if I had truly done it— if I had truly broken free of the castle. From Harry.

A month I had been held there, a month I had been away from my home— my family. 

The roads seemed different than they did before. They looked dirtier and unkept. The closer I got to the outskirts the more worn the buildings looked. Has everything always looked like this? Or did I become accustomed to the castle?

Sweat broke on my forehead and my legs began to feel heavy. I had been running for what seemed like ages, but I couldn't let up now. Another strong rumble vibrated its way through the kingdom, this one strong enough to make me stumble. 

I caught my balance, clutching my dress and continuing down the street. 

When the bakery came into view I almost wanted to cry. It was a little two-story building with a 'Castors bakery' sign hanging outside. I stopped in my spot, looking up at the building. The building looked more eroded than I initially remembered it. 

I looked up at the second story, my eyes traveling to my bedroom window. Memories rushed through me, nights of me staring out that window, looking up at the night sky. My eyes traveled to the chipped stone and faded paint. This is where I had lived my entire life and yet, it felt so foreign.

Home— this was home.

I gave up on this place some weeks ago, trying my hardest to forget about my family and focus on my magic. I can hardly believe I did. My eyes began to water as I looked through the window on the first floor, past all the tables and chairs that sat inside. I could see the counter from here, the kitchen door, and—

My breath caught in my lungs as I watched my father round the corner. His back was to me as he placed a fresh pan of pastries on one of the cooling racks. He had a red apron tied around his waist and his faded brown hair was combed neatly on his head. I couldn't stop my feet from propelling me forward. My palm pushed against the cold glass door, sending off the chime of a bell.

"We're not open yet," he said casually over his shoulder. 

I didn't say anything as I let the door fall closed behind me. My feet felt glued in their place, my mouth ran dry. It almost felt like I was dreaming. I stood in silence, watching my father shift behind the counter.

"I said we're not—" my father turned, and I met with his dull eyes. 

"Father?" 

The sob that raked through my lips was enough to make my knees buckle. He ran from behind the counter, nearly slamming me with a hug. I buried my face in his chest, smelling that familiar scent of sugar and vanilla. 

I never thought I would be here again.

"Nuray," he pulled away from me. I looked up at his aged face. His eyes were watering, much like mine. It didn't take much time for his eyes to bounce down to my arm, taking in the sleeve tattoo that stuck out like a sore thumb.

"What's this?" He gasped, touching my arm slightly. His eyes were wide. I don't know which was more shocking to him, that I was here or the fact that I had a full-length tattoo.