Wren Hawthorne wants nothing more than a quiet seventh and final year at Hogwarts. Unfortunately what Wren wants, and what she ends up getting are two seperate things. Between increasingly difficult classes, Quidditch matches, trying to decide her f...
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Wren stepped out the back door into the cold night air and composed herself, taking a moment to wipe at her eyes. She blew out an unsteady breath, which turned into a small laugh of relief. It wasn't until this moment that she really thought that Anne would never speak with Sebastian again. To see them actually interact once more brought her such joy she thought she'd burst with it.
"I've never heard you speak so passionately before," Ominis murmured as he followed her out into the chill.
"I've never had to," she replied.
"Was that the first time you've said that you...loved him?" Ominis asked, a vulnerability in his voice that she wasn't used to. Wren turned back to look at him. He was frowning slightly, his lips drawn thin.
"Yes. I haven't...said it to him, though," she admitted truthfully.
"Why not?"
"Have you said it to him?" she deflected.
"No!"
"Why not?" Wren asked.
"I...I don't know how to," he admitted, shifting uncomfortably, turning slightly away from her, "it isn't something I've had any experience with. I've never even heard my own parents say it. Not to each other and certainly not to me."
Wren's heart gave a lurch at his words. She knew his family was cruel, both to Muggles and anyone who didn't share in their ideology...but the thought of withholding affection from their own children? It was monstrous.
"I know it isn't the same...but you're not alone in that regard," she replied as she hopped up to sit on the stone wall that fenced off the small garden behind the cottage. Her parents may have said it, but she barely remembered their faces, let alone their voices or words. She was two when they died, and her grandfather hadn't been one to speak about either of them.
"You had your grandfather. Did he ever say it?" Ominis asked as he leaned up against the wall next to her, elbows resting on the stone behind him.
"Not in words," she recalled.
"Then how?"
"Well...my parents died when I was young, and he didn't have to take me in, but he did. He chose me. He continued to choose me until the day that he—" the words caught in her throat and she had to swallow before continuing "—died. Aside from that, he always remembered my birthday and got me fresh honeycomb or a small piece of chocolate, even if we were low on coin. He knew my favorite color and what flowers were my favorite. He always knew what stories I wanted to hear and where all my favorite hiding places were. When I was six, I was upset that I couldn't fly like the birds did...so he built me a swing, which was the closest I could get. When I was frightened of thunderstorms, he taught me to dance to the rhythm of the rain and let me stand on his shoes so I wouldn't trip. He just...made space for me. I didn't need him to tell me he loved me because I already knew," she explained, a bittersweet smile on her face as she looked up at the stars and remembered the man who raised her.
