𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐍 - 𝐡.𝐩.

01 | Hunt For A Portkey

"Yes, Miss," said Fizzy obediently. Then with a sweet smile and a bow, she disapparated from there.

"Well, Twig, it's just you and me now," said the girl. "Behave," she appended and Twig rubbed a leaf against her ear affectionately. Her lips curled into a discreet smile at the bowtruckle's actions and her fingers reached up and stroked him tenderly, making him purr.

Chuckling gently, she stepped out into the street. Hoping profoundly that some hormonal Muggle teenage boy wouldn't appear out of thin air and unsuccessfully attempt to charm her, she hurried towards a tree situated near a bygone park. She had found the Portkey, a punctured football lying inconspicuously at the foot of the tree, amongst some chamomile flowers.

She gasped softly and whispered under her breath to Twig, "Twig, look chamomiles!" Twig let out an equally surprised gasp, which was naturally so faint that it only reached her ears.

Twig loved chamomile flowers, and would always plead with her to fetch some for him whenever she went out, as those were one of the few flowers they didn't have. She too had always been quite fond of the little beauties. Their simplicity was what attracted her to them, but her favourite flowers would forever remain lilies.

"Do you think we could pluck some for tea?" she asked Twig, and he squealed, accidentally moving an arm in his delirium which caused a minor cut on her ear. She hissed at the stinging sensation, her hand instantly moving up to her ear to check whether the wound was bleeding. Bringing her hand back in front of her eyes, she spotted the tiniest drop of blood on her index finger. "God, Twig, I've told you to be careful with those knife-like hands of yours." 

She muttered a few curses under her breath, and Twig emitted a whimper at seeing her so cross. Hearing this, she released a compassionate sigh. "Oh chérie, you know I don't like scolding you..."

Twig let out a sad squeak to apologise. She opened her mouth to say something, but her words were drowned by a husky voice, still ripening with adolescence, right behind her.

"Excuse me?"

Twig froze, and for a moment, so did she. But the bowtruckle slowly and skilfully twisted around her ear and shrouded the obvious details, and after ensuring that he had done so, she spun swiftly on her heel to face the intruder.

It was a boy. 

She uttered a string of inaudible colourful words that made Twig's leaves unfurl in embarrassment. The boy was almost a head taller than her and wore a pretence of earnestness — which she easily caught on to, judging by how casually he had his hands in his pockets, and the way his eyes shamelessly roamed over her. She merely raised an eyebrow at him, a barely concealed hostile look blazing behind her cold eyes. He was standing closer to her than was considered friendly or polite.

"Can you touch my arm?" he said, and she could scarcely hide her disgust and bewilderment. But he continued before she could express her thoughts, "I want to tell my friends I was touched by an angel."

Her eyes closed as she thought of something civil to say, and she knew he was expecting the red colour to flood her cheeks. But she held great disappointment for him as she wasn't one of those sappy girls who fell for doltish chat-up lines. All she could think was 'He's such a troll,' — but she obviously couldn't tell him that. So she gave the thought a hefty push out of her mind and opened her eyes with much effort.

"Is that the best you could come up with?" she tipped her head to the side, unimpressed, and underlining her words with caustic humour, "Who's next in line? One of your boy toys?"

His stunned look said it all, and she didn't bother to control the slight tug at the edge of her lips. She pivoted curtly on her heel and took no more than a single step forward in direction of the tree when a hand grabbed her wrist roughly and pulled her back.