Finished Lost And Found PV Rachel Blank

Syrah stood still, her posture rigid as the girl hurried to gather the fallen books. She watched in silence, annoyance passing through her eyes. It wasn’t that she couldn’t have picked them up herself,she just hadn’t expected someone to come barreling around the corner like that.

Her fingers tightened around the books she was handed, hugging them close to her chest. She glanced down, noting the slight bend in one of the corners. A sigh almost escaped her lips, but she caught it.

“Careful next time,” she said, her voice steady but not unkind. There was no point in lashing out; she’d only look foolish for standing in the middle of the corridor like a lost child. Which, in a way, she was.

She was definitely in the wrong place, and she hated that she’d have to admit it. But after wandering in circles for what felt like hours, it was clear she wasn’t getting to the library on her own.
Finally, she glanced at the girl from the corner of her eye. “You wouldn’t happen to know the way to the library, would you?” The question came out stiffer than she intended, but it was the best she could manage.

She waited, her fingers nervously tapping against the spine of a book. Her shoulders were tense, her head slightly bowed, not enough to look defeated, but just enough to avoid the other girl’s gaze.

Syrah stared at the girl, eyes narrowing slightly as the girl prattled on, her words tumbling out like an overflowing cauldron. She watched her skip ahead, the yellow band on her robes catching the light. It was almost blinding. Of course, she’s Hufflepuff. Figures.

The thought almost made Syrah smile, almost.

She kept her eyes on the cracked stone floor, counting the bricks as she moved, hoping the girl would take the hint and stop talking. No such luck.

Words tumbled from the girl’s mouth in a never-ending stream. How could someone have so much to say about absolutely nothing?

The comment about getting lost earnedannoyance across Syrah’s face. “I’m not lost,” she said, the words sharper than she intended. “I just… took a wrong turn.”

Her patience finally snapped when the girl tried to read her.

“Nervous?” Syrah’s head shot up, her cold blue-gray eyes narrowing. “I’m not nervous,” she said, voice sharp, the words biting. “Just because I’m not yapping like a crup on a sugar high doesn’t mean I’m nervous.” She looked away, shoulders stiff, her gaze drifting back to the floor. “Some people just know how to keep their thoughts to themselves.”

The girl barely faltered, launching right into another topic, Hufflepuff. Syrah rolled her eyes, her shoulders sagging with irritation. “Yeah, I noticed. Yellow isn’t exactly subtle.” Her tone was dripping with sarcasm, lips curled into a faint, mocking smile.

The questions kept coming, one after another, never leaving enough space for silence. Syrah didn’t bother answering.

When the girl finally took a breath, Syrah’s lips twisted into a irritated frown. She shot a glance toward the girl, her voice icy but controlled. “Syrah.” The word came out flat, almost dismissive, as she ignored the question about the books. Wasn’t it obvious? She was carrying nothing but books on dark arts, rituals, and old magic. What else would someone with common sense expect her to read?

She just wanted to get to the library. Was that really too much to ask?

Syrah let out a quiet, sharp breath through her nose. The comparison to a Hippogriff caught her off guard. What in Merlin’s name was that supposed to mean? Her lips twitched, and for a brief, fleeting moment, she was almost amused. "Dont you find it cool that the paintings move all on their own!!"
Syrah barely suppressed an eye roll. Of course, she found it cool. Who didn’t? But she wasn’t about to feed into this girl’s endless chatter.

The Hufflepuff showed no sign of stopping. She just kept going, her voice light and cheerful, bouncing around the corridor with a sickening amount of enthusiasm. Syrah’s shoulders tensed. It was like being pecked at by a hyperactive Pygmy Puff.

"You know. Youre kind of a quiet type... I can respect that. I dont mind talking enough for the both of us. "

Syrah’s lip twitchedr. “Clearly,” she drawled, her voice flat. “You’re doing a remarkable job at it.”

Rachel’s voice bounced off the wallss. Syrah clenched her teeth. She’d been called many things, cold, unfeeling, distant, but never “quiet.”

Quiet suggested meekness, a lack of confidence. It suggested that she was timid, afraid. That wasn’t it at all. Quiet suggested she had nothing to say. The truth was, she simply had nothing she wanted to share. Not with her, not with anyone.

She felt the girl’s gaze on her, curious and bright. And it took every ounce of Syrah’s patience not to snap at her. Why did she care so much? Why was she still talking?

“If you’re trying to fill the silence,” she said, her voice smooth and icy, “you’re succeeding. Spectacularly.”

Syrah’s eyes flicked sideways at Rachel, her expression as impassive as ever. s. It wasn’t that she minded people talking—Baba Zoya talked all the time, and Syrah never got tired of her stories. But this? This was different. Rachel’s voice was too cheerful, too persistent, too...much. It buzzed like a fly she couldn’t swat away, bouncing from one topic to the next without a breath in between.
Syrah’s silence wasn’t because she was shy. Far from it. She could talk for hours with Baba Zoya about old folktales and spells or with Nicolai. She used to chatter endlessly with her mother about the garden, the flowers, the birds...until her mother stopped answering.
It was just that Rachel’s words meant nothing. They were filler, noise with no purpose or meaning. Dragons and sphynxes and kelpies, Rachel’s words jumped around without a care, refusing to settle long enough for Syrah to catch on. It made her head spin. If she opened her mouth, she feared something sharp and unkind would come out, so she kept it shut. It was better that way.
Then Rachel asked about dark magic.
Syrah’s steps faltered for just second before she continued down the stairs. It was rare for anyone to ask her about that so bluntly.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the worn covers of the books she was carrying. The spines were cracked from use, titles embossed in faded gold lettering: Hexes and Curses: A Historical Perspective, Shadows of the Arcane: An Advanced Study of Dark Spells, and The Art of Blood Magic. She hadn’t exactly been subtle.
Favorite spell? The thought almost made her scoff.
How could she have a favorite spell when she barely knew any?
Sure, she’d read about them. In great detail, in fact. She could recite incantations, list ingredients for potions that would make even seasoned wizards raise their eyebrows, and explain the complex theory behind curses that were forbidden to even speak of. But knowing the theory wasn’t the same as casting them.
A small, bitter feeling twisted in her chest. She didn’t have a favorite spell because she hadn’t earned the right to one. Not yet, at least. Baba Zoya always said that power meant nothing if you couldn’t wield it. Words and wand movements were just that, words and movements. Without the magic to back them up, they were as useless as ink on a page.

Syrah’s voice cut through the air, soft but firm. “I don’t have one.”
Syrah’s eyes flicked to the side, catching a glimpse of Rachel’s expectant face before snapping back forward. “Just because I read about it doesn’t mean I have a favorite,” she replied coolly. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to try it.”
Her tone was sharp, almost accusatory.
They continued down the stairs in silence, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. Syrah’s eyes drifted to the cobwebs nestled in the corners, their delicate threads shimmering in the pale light.
After a moment, she spoke again, her voice quiet, almost reluctant. “The theory is... interesting,” she admitted. “The way magic can be shaped, twisted... It’s like a puzzle. If you understand how it works, you can do almost anything.”
She didn’t look at Rachel as she spoke, her eyes fixed on the path ahead. It was the most she’d said all day, and she already regretted it.