WILD FLOWERS ✿ d.malfoy

2.

I've been up for days. They don't know that.

Whoever saved me that day after I washed up on the beach – Hagrid, I think that's what their name is – brought me to this place. This house.

It's a terraced house, therefore narrow and long. It's also old. There's dust covering almost every surface, the furniture is made of fine mahogany. The room in which I woke up, mostly healed and not half dead, is one of the biggest in this house. And cleanest.

There is one permanent resident of this house – a man in his late thirties, dark hair, blue eyes, a beard and tattoos – Sirius Black. I remember seeing him on the news years ago, a criminal.

Then there are people who visit frequently. A man who comes in several times a day, seems like his friend. Best friend. He has brown hair, seems old, but maybe that's just his clothes – old and faded. He has scars running down his face and neck – Remus Lupin. There's a woman who has flaming red hair, plump and motherly. A mother, she probably has seven kids – Molly Weasley. She came to check on me three times a day, always fixed times. Her husband, Arthur Weasley. Another woman, younger and with bubble-gum pink hair; she can change her appearance – Nymphadora Tonks (hates her first name). An elderly man, white beard and white hair, half moon spectacles, a pointed hat – Albus Dumbledore. He's the Headmaster of some wizarding school named Hogwarts.

There are people who parade by fewer than the others, Minerva McGonagall, Severus Snape, Alastor Moody, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Mundungus Fletcher. There was also a peculiar creature which had skin like porcelain and eyes like tennis balls. It wore a rag: a pillow case. A dirty one and kept muttering curses under its breath. Kreacher, was its name. An elf.

A painting, I suppose, was hung up in the hall. It stained poison on people when it opened its mouth. Seemingly, the painting could talk. I don't paint 'up there' anymore – my mind could never resist a chance to bombard me with memories. With pain. And I never seemed to be able to control my emotions. So, I never went to that place. One thing I've adopted is naming colours that match the energy radiating from people – I'll get to know whom I should or should not cross. And that's less painful than doing something I used to do in – my past life – because a soldier doesn't cry for the fallen until the war is over. Snap out of it, Amabel. Focus.

Seems creepy, doesn't it, how I know so much about strangers. Spying strategies. I was training to be a soldier, but my interest was in spying. And of course, weapons; not like normal guns and rifles, ancient weapons – knives, swords, daggers, rapiers and on and on. Hence the dagger, always by my side.

I needed to make sure these people are good; if there is but anything like 'good' people. They speak about me, a lot. They too, refer to me as Celestia. They speak about me like talking about a weapon. A time bomb. And about Death Eaters and the 'Dark Lord' in repulsion and utter hatred. That was soothing.

Hours slipped off the clock. 6 pm. People seem to be coming – the house was boisterous, footsteps echoing through the wooden halls – I crept near the landing, my feet firm but light, making not one noise. There was an eerie glow marking the shadows. Everyone seemed to be there – in the dining hall. I crept to other side of the landing and pressed one ear firmly to the dusty wooden floor.

Screeches and a faint murmur. I pressed my ear harder. I could make out the rough outlines of the words being spoken.

"How is Celestia? Has she woken up?"

"She is recovering, hasn't woken up yet."

"That's ... disturbing. Any news about the Harper's yet?" I suck in a deep breath. My heart is thumping louder with each beat.