ᴘʏʀʀʜɪᴄ ᴠɪᴄᴛᴏʀʏ// ᴛʜᴇ ɢɪʀʟ ᴡʜᴏ ʟɪᴠᴇᴅ ᴀᴜ

OWLS POST

It was nearly midnight, and having nothing better to do, Bluebell laid on her stomach in bed, the blankets drawn right over her head like a tent, a flashlight in one hand and a large leather-bound book (A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot) propped open against the pillow and her cat sleeping soundly on the base of her feets. Bluebell moved the tip of her eagle-feather quill down the page, frowning as he looked for something that would help her write her essay, 'Witch Burning in the Fourteenth Century Was Completely Pointless -- discuss.'

The quill paused at the top of a likely looking paragraph. Bluebell pushed glasses up the
bridge of her nose, moved her flashlight closer to the book, and read:

Non-magic people (more commonly known as Muggles) were particularly afraid of magic in medieval times, but not very good at recognizing it. On the rare occasion that they did catch a real witch or wizard, burning had no effect whatsoever. The witch or wizard would perform a basic Flame-Freezing Charm and then pretend to shriek with pain while enjoying a gentle, tickling sensation. Indeed, Wendelin the Weird enjoyed being burned so much that she allowed herself to be caught no less than forty-seven times in various disguises.

Bluebell put her quill between her teeth and reached underneath her pillow for her ink bottle and a roll of parchment. Bianca and Oliva were having a night in for the first time in a while, sadly, so blue has to slowly and very carefully she unscrewed the ink bottle, dipped her quill into it, and began to write, pausing every now and then to listen, because if any of the Scott's heard the scratching of her quill on their way to the bathroom, she'd probably find herself locked in the cupboard under the stairs for the rest of the summer.

Bluebell finished writing about Wendelin the Weird and paused to listen again. The silence in the dark house was broken only by the distance, the sound of the telly in the living room.

It must be very late, Blue thought. Her eyes were itching with tiredness. Perhaps she'd finish this essay tomorrow night... It's not like she had anything better to do.

She replaced the top of the ink bottle; pulled an old pillowcase from under her bed; put the flashlight, a History of Magic, her essay, quill, and ink inside it where she also hid her blunts; got out of bed; and hid the lot under a loose floorboard under her bed. Then she stood up, stretched, and checked the time on the luminous alarm clock on her bedside table.

It was one o'clock in the morning. Blue's stomach gave an unpleasant turn. It was her birthday and she had been thirteen years old, without realizing it, for a whole hour. The only consolation that came with it was that the Scott's had completely ignored her last two birthdays, and she had no reason to suppose they would remember this one, thankfully because she didn't want to either.

Although she had to admit it was rather surprising she reached that age, having faced Voldemort three times and survived it's not something many can say. The first was the night she got the scar, where her parents had died to protect her which the thought gave her a sickening feeling, then in her first year where she stopped him from getting the philosopher stone and her second year which she fought a younger version of him, nonetheless just as dangerous.

Bluebell walked across the dark room, to the open window. She leaned on the sill, the cool night air pleasant on her face after a long time under the blankets. Blue pulled one of the rolled up weed cigarettes from the pillow case and with an old lighter she had found laying around the house earlier, she lit it up and inhaled before letting the smoke go through the window.

Bluebell hadn't called Garrett, neither had she called Cameron or Ruby, as much as would have like, after her conversation with Jenny she felt as if she was doing something wrong. Jenny was another person she hadn't talked to, either because of guilt or anger Blue decided it was pointless to see the girl.