And even the birds have stopped singing...
For when all the world's malice is endured by these handfuls of teenagers, the hush of sorrow settles in.
Carly Wren Davies is her parents' boxing bag and the very reason they need one in the first place...
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LONELINESS IS A SOUL'S FUEL. At least it can be if desired. Even so, it is a quite dangerous concept, for, by lack of desire it has the capacity to destroy you from within – one tiny torch and all your joy become entrapped in a massive explosion. What's left is wreckage and cinder. And rebuilding your bliss will be a tough road.
Carly's friends ensure no spark reaches her flammable heart.
The Hufflepuffs' dorm is a kaleidoscope of colors. In more contexts than one. Her roommates' sleeping areas are a riot of shades. The walls are decked with posters, and the bedside cabinets are excessively decorated. Meanwhile, Carly's bed is simply a pale blue. The walls are bereft of any décor, including photographs and posters. On her night table lie a hair tie and an alarm clock. But the floor beside her bed – it is now littered with a rainbow's kiss.
Upon her abrupt leaving of Hogsmeade, she had gone straight to her room. Relief conquered her once she entered to find it unoccupied. So much so that she slid to the ground and remained there for long durations.
Irrespective of the fact that she was, at last, able to enjoy her own company, her evil thoughts came to the fore. They plucked her skin and yanked on her limbs. She had fled from her distraction, so she sought another.
The girl revived one of her gone passions.
Carly sits on the floor, painting a canvas. Though it appears she is utilizing her skin as one. Red, blue, and a great deal of green, but also lilac, and even more orange accessorize the floor, her skin, and astonishingly some smears on the canvas as well. The brush's fine hairs glide across the white without regard for the outcome. Contours emerge, but the girl has no concept of where the brush is floating.
Amidst an orange brushstroke that may be portion of a rising sun, the door opens timidly. Theodore's curls blink in, but Carly does not notice. Her attention rolls over in a splodge of green.
Theodore watches her for some few moments. And it is only when he loudly knocks on the already inviting door that the girl's focus is lured out of her sphere.
"I brought you pickle juice," he greets her, holding a glass emptied of pickles into the Hufflepuff's line of vision.
For a moment, the world clock grinds to a stop, the brush pausing mid-air before reality gives time a nudge. As she lowers her brush, the girl's lips shape an appreciative smile. The corners of her mouth, however, do not reach her eyes – An observation Theodore makes effortlessly.
The boy walks in, shuts the door, and places the glass on a desk beside him before stepping forward. Though, he makes no motion to sit. Rather, his palms slip into his trouser pockets, and he watches as Carly continues to work on her art piece, without a word of thanks or an explanation. Surely, she must realize what leads him here.
She does. She knows why he has sought out her presence. But she is reluctant to discuss the matter. That is why she is dipping a brush into hue instead of voluntarily conversing with her friend.
