Recover PV Saunders Finished

@Maisie Gemmell

Saunders Napier, the boy whose yet unexplored dreams were still well buried under the thick soil of other people's expectations of him, tried not to slouch as he embarked on a journey that would end in the Charms classroom. Fortunately, at his mother's insistence, he had received some private lessons on how to walk properly. "Dear," had said his mother once, "if you walk slouching like that, everyone will think they can ride on your back." As a sane person who did not desire to be taken for a mule by others, Saunders had tried his best to bring these interesting lessons to a successful conclusion.

A girl's voice brought him out of his deep ponderings about his walking posture. Hey? Really? Instead of "Excuse me,", or "I beg your pardon,", or "Oh, would you have the magnanimity in your most exalted heart to grant me a brief moment of your attention, you, O wayfarer?" Well then. Not everyone would have been properly familiar with the etiquette of stopping someone on the road. "Hey," Saunders muttered, but apparently this most ordinary shout was out of her earshot.

Now, who the hell was that? Saunders did not recognise her face at first. In his defence, the school was so crowded that even a person with a famous memory for faces would have found it difficult to remember who was who. He narrowed his eyes and peered at her, hoping that this face would trigger something in the realm of his memories. As Saunders continued his desperate search, the girl gave him a perfectly adequate clue. Aha! Damn right! It was the girl from the boat. The one next to that giant of a boy. What was her name? Oh. He remembered that this was a piece of information he could not possibly remember because he had not yet acquired it. "I never asked."

Saunders presumed that the girl wanted to meet him in a proper way or something. But no. Instead of saying her name or asking for his name, she seemed intent on confronting Saunders. Now that was unusual for him. If he had to make a list of the things he abhorred, somewhere near the top would be having to explain to others the reasons for his actions. Therefore, he was unable to adopt his usual diplomatic demeanour towards the girl who seemed to be counting the seconds to scold him.

"Oh, my," he said, frowning, but calmly, as he stepped back slightly, "What the deuce?" He paused for a moment. "I'm not the head of a charity dedicated to rescuing those who get into trouble with grindylows, young lady," he said in a tone slightly high-pitched than usual when he was disgorging the venom of sarcasm. "I don't know if you fell here from the moon, but there are dozens of adults at Hogwarts whose only job is to protect the students," he snorted. Saunders continued to string his sentences together without giving her a chance to speak and perhaps say something to lighten the mood. Lifting up his head like an insulted musketeer, he added, "I wish, no, I caution you not to get into any trouble for the next seven years in the hope that Saunders Napier will come to your aid."

Had it been a little too much? "No doubt," whispered the voice inside the boy, and Saunders quickly axed it from his inner realm team. "Now, if that answers your question, I have a class to attend." he said in a calmer, courteous and almost kind manner.

His frown was not unexpected; his manner was. Yes, she was upset and hurt at the passive way he and the other boy had just let things unfold, but her question was a straightforward and honest one. His response, however, seemed like the least straight-talking way he possibly could have contorted all this.

The purple prose language alone, dressed in his sarcasm was disorienting: "Deuce...charity...young lady." And it got worse: it was plainly insulting. Her eyes narrowed.

"I'm not stupid," she retorted, "and I'm not a lady. I'm a student—just like you." She tried to stand straight and tall, but at her short stature, that was never easy. But she needed the visual; if he somehow thought he was better than her, she wanted to argue the reverse. "So, let me get this straight: you think that only teachers are supposed to help when there's a problem? And what if there's not a teacher around? What if the school gets attacked? You're just going to stand around and wait for a teacher?" Maybe that was a little bit of an exaggerated example, but Maisie knew from her time living in a big city that there weren't always adults around—that was luxury. Most of the time, you had figure things out for yourself. And what was the point of that if you didn't help other people too?

He lifted his head up—an act of puffery much like her own—and finally dropped his name, unlike the giant boy. She supposed he had manners. And at least it was a name to match his smugness: Saunders Napier. She held her satchel closer to her chest as she looked him over.

"Now, if that answers your question, I have a class to attend," he said, seeming to settle back into himself.

But Maisie had not settled.

"Me too," she replied curtly. And as she turned on her heel to leave, she added with a mustered smile, "And don't you worry. Maisie Gemmell doesn't need any boys to save her." She'd not let him get the better of her.

@Saunders Napier

With thoughts as possessive as vine, Saunders stood still. It was one of those rare occasions when something that had always been steadfast in his mind now quivered, shied, throwing his balance into jeopardy. His enviable composure had become something else, a body of water stirred with an almost dark sorcery. For nigh on six months he had not revealed his exasperation. The last time it had come out was when one of the neighbouring children had questioned Saunders' claim that goblins were stronger than werewolves. Something primal within the boy seemed always ready to spring forth, quills raised and fur bristling, the moment his behaviour faced even the slightest scrutiny. Pulled by the weary chains of his thoughts, Saunders tried to make sense of what about Maisie actually made him so fiery.

Lost in his thoughts, Saunders could not focus on Maisie's words. Her voice floated around him, of not being a lady, of a possible attack on the school... Too preoccupied to detect the exact context in which such words all made sense, Saunders resembled a swimmer just out of a grueling race, his chest rising and falling.

When a fleeting moment of clarity broke through the haze, he looked at the girl once again, and the sight before his navy-blue eyes brought a small, tiny, almost imperceptible curl of a smile to the corner of his lip. Brave, that Maisie was.

But Saunders had no intention of yielding. His initial reaction may have been exaggerated, but he still clung to his indignation with stubborn resolve. What, grindylows overrunning the school, leading to a carnage of first-years on the cusp of a new term? Heh! Again, a fit of anger welled up inside him, which he projected onto Maisie, though its true target remained elusive even to him.

As she spun on her heel and uttered her fancy exit line, Saunders called after her: "Good luck, Maisie Gemmell! Watch out a hippogriff doesn't fly off with your little satchel!"

He chuckled lightly, looking after her.

@Maisie Gemmell