Plot Twist [GEORGE WEASLEY]

67.

Amara wiped the sleep out of her eyes. She'd burned the candle at both ends last night, despairing with her essay which had been due this very morning. The rest of the school shared her sentiment. A sleepy haze hung over them all as they slouched in their benches, mouths forming lazy vowels.

She didn't bother talking to her friends, preoccupied by the constant tugging of tiredness. Amara became alert for a second when George sauntered into the Great Hall, Fred lagging with Lee. If she was an absolute sap, she'd say the sunlight bent around him for him. But, she didn't and dismissed the electricity waking her bones up.

She wanted to shake it off.

The almost kiss (part two, she dubbed it) had happened two weeks ago. They tried to avoid each other for the first week, however, the twins had to show up to class. And George had to sit beside her for Transfiguration.

Also work with her, on the wishes of Professor McGonagall.

They bared some camaraderie to cope with the horrible density threatening their relationship. Exchanging instructions and questions, they kept a respectable, unromantic gap between. A brush of the hands would prompt unwanted memories of the event they didn't want to relive more than necessary.

So, things were alright.

He must've sensed her as he turned his head and raised his hand in a greeting. Her world tipped over for a second. She nodded back, bringing it back to rights. It was mystifying how she became more affected by each motion of his.

It was unfair. Super unfair. She coaxed her burning cheeks to cool as a barn owl swooped down. Eyes glittering obsidian, it deposited an envelope. Twisting its neck and pecking at the leftover sausage on her plate, it hooted and departed.

This must be a letter from her father. They'd returned to a steady rate of correspondence, at least writing to each other twice a week. She was happy that he'd found the space and time to do it, in the chaos of hunting the jailbreak Deatheaters.

Though, the letter didn't seem to be marked from their house address. The elusiveness wasn't lost when she turned the letter. It was from Dublin. Who did she know from Dublin? She'd deemed it a mistaken letter until she saw the neat print of her name. Amara Shacklebolt. Including her middle name.

Amara Irene Shacklebolt.

Yes, her middle name was taken from her mother's first. She didn't use it much. It felt like it only belonged to her mother who was gone. The people who knew her middle name, she could count on her right hand.

Intrigued, she opened the envelope to find a postcard. It was a rendering of a stunning urban landscape. Colourful tall apartment buildings dotted the side of a wide river. A peculiar domed facade rose in between. A bridge joined the two sides of the town, the other of which she couldn't see. Ducks spotted the pristine lake like little lotus' floating downwards.

At the bottom of the card, letters curved into a sentence. River Liffey, Dublin, Ireland. Wish you were here.

Did someone she know go to Ireland? Her dad's mother, her grandmother must've taken a surprise trip. She did things like that. However she informed them much more than a simple postcard. A handwritten letter preferably. The back of it was empty.

The envelope, which she assumed to be, wasn't. A bracelet was tangled in a heap of silver inside. Her blood ran cold. She picked it up, gingerly. It felt fragile in her palm being a thin silver chain and nothing more.

Amara had lost this bracelet years ago. When it was gifted to her as a birthday present from her grandmother, she had been twelve and had the knack of losing any possession of her. Books. Quills. Athena's cat toys. She believed then that she misplaced this and it had disappeared forever.