Maeve Macmillan liked to write.
It didn't matter if it was writing her thoughts in her diary, short stories in a journal, articles for newspapers, essays for homework, letters to her parents, simple reminders on her hand, quotes on parchment to st...
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------------------------> HER EYES FLASHED OPEN TO MEET THE CEILING when the furious winds slammed against the glass of the windows. Lightning crackled through her room, creating a beautiful illumination of terrifying shadows. Maeve pushed the quilt off of her and sat upon the edge of her bed. The marble tiled floors of her room were cool to the touch of her feet.
Maeve leaned forward to pick up her wand from where it laid on the nightstand before she waved it. Numbers illuminated by gold appeared in the air, signalling that it was only two-twenty in the morning.
Maeve groaned, falling back onto her bed, before jumping to her feet with a squeak when a roar of thunder shook her room. Obviously, beings from other planets had entered the earth's atmosphere to kidnap Maeve and brainwash her into believing that chocolate puddings were bad for her.
Gripping her wand tighter, Maeve tugged her quilt out of her bed and wrapped it around herself like a cloak, to hide and be mistaken for a lump on the ground should predators approach.
Regretting that the floors were crafted with wood—thus, squeaking and giving away her position should non-earthly beings threaten to break in—Maeve's steps were laced with caution and all the stealth she could muster while dragging a heavy quilt behind her.
Darkness touched every inch of space, spare a small area next to the window where scant rays of the moon shone despite the claps of thunder. Striking cackles of lightning brightened the hallway Maeve ambled on periodically, causing Maeve's heart to hammer against her chest whenever it did.
Maeve glided down the spiralling staircase, the quilt slowing her pace. Regret coursed through her veins for not bringing her wand with her. Thunder boomed outside, startling Maeve, but by then, she had finished climbing down the stairs and possessed darting eyes.
In the sparkle of lighting, Maeve spotted a shadow move ahead of her. She screamed.
The shadow screamed.
In an act of perfect precision, Maeve threw her quilt over the shadow and called for the house-elves to switch on the lights, which they did. Maeve searched for what could be used as a weapon, before holding her hands in a threatening manner in front of her. "Who are you?"
"Your father," came her response, accompanied by a groan. The quilt slipped and dropped to the floor like Maeve's IQ, revealing the familiar grey-haired, blue-eyed pouting figure of Maeve's father, Marius Macmillan, clasping a glass of milk. "All I wanted was milk, not quilt."
Thunder reverberated above. Maeve's hands fell to her sides, and her cheeks burned with embarrassment. "Sorry, dad. I thought you were a non-earthly being."
"Completely understandable, with the weather and all." Marius picked up the fallen quilt with his free hand and returned it to Maeve. "I see the thunder awoke you as well," he noted with a yawn, holding a half-filled glass of milk.
