Merely Misunderstood

Chapter Sixty-Three

I snapped my eyes away from the window, realizing my mind had wandered exactly where I'd been avoiding. I stared at Mirah instead, watching as she sat crouched at the foot of her bed, bouncing her leg and wringing her fingers in and out of each other. She wore a fretful frown on her face, and I knew she must worry about the people she cared for more than I realized.

Why hadn't I noticed before? Of course I wasn't the only one worrying about the ones I loved. I supposed my ignorance was probably thanks to my subconscious belief that everything was my fault, and that caused me to think the world revolved around me.

And that sounded awfully selfish, if I was being honest.

"Keep frowning like that and you'll get permanent wrinkles," I said lightly in an attempt to cheer her up. Mirah smiled half-heartedly, letting out a weak chuckle before falling silent again. Her frown didn't waver, and she fidgeted nervously, glancing up at the window with every sound that emanated from outside.

I sighed, pushing myself up from the floor. "Mirah, they'll be fine," I assured my best friend, standing before her. "I mean, can you imagine someone picking a fight with your dad?"

Mirah chuckled. "I guess not..." she admitted. Even she knew her father didn't draw much attention.

"Yeah, especially now that he's got that new mustache," I said, dragging my fingers over my upper lip to symbolize the bushy facial hair.

Mirah looked up at me as I said this and cracked a large smile. "I expect he thinks he looks rather intimidating with it, don't you?" she asked.

I faked a shudder. "And with all the time he spent growing it out, you'd think he'd have the patience to deal with just about anything."

"I wish it worked that way," Mirah muttered. We laughed together, and this alone seemed to help bring her out of her stress.

"Hey, why don't we go put the tea on? You know your mum will be desperate for a cuppa once she gets home," I suggested, thinking time would go by faster if we were doing something.

Mirah grinned, nodding. "Yeah, you're right."

She jumped up from the bed, leading the way out of her room. I bounded down the stairs after her, nearly crashing into her when she froze halfway down.

"Oi, what's the holdup?" I started to ask, but the sound of a doorknob rattling reached my ears, and I fell silent.

We stood together in the middle of the staircase, staring at the front door. If it were Mirah's parents, wouldn't they just use the key? But then again, if it were Death Eaters, they wouldn't bother with the doorknob — they would just blast down the front door altogether.

"Who do you reckon —"

"Shh!" Mirah demanded, creeping down the stairs as silently as she could.

"Mirah, what're you—"

Mirah held up a finger to shush me, tip-toeing toward the door, her eyes locked on the doorknob. She cautiously peered through the peephole, and after a tense moment of suspense, she let out an irritated sigh, stepping back and ripping the door open.

I almost cried out, but once my eyes landed on the man standing outside, I stopped. It was Mr. Holland, holding a tower of books stacked up higher than his head in his arms. It seemed he was rattling the doorknob to get our attention, seeing as he didn't have a spare hand to unlock the door himself.

He felt around for the threshold with his foot, carefully making his way into the house, the tower of books teetering dangerously.

"What's all that?" Mirah asked.