Cold Enough for You? PV Sinclair Carver FIN

Syrah didn't answer right away. She just stared at the ceiling, arms crossed, fingers tapping idly against her sleeve. Talking about herself wasn’t exactly her favorite pastime. But she supposed this wasn’t an interrogation—just Sinclair being nosy in that casual, non-annoying way of hers.

“Slytherin,” she said first, as if that should be obvious. “Half-blood.” A beat of silence. Then, with the slightest tilt of her head, she added, “I'm Scottish.” Not that she needed to say it—her accent did all the work.

She let the quiet stretch, not particularly feeling the need to fill it, but after a moment, she continued. “I grew up in some big old manor up in Inverness. Freezing half the time, creaky all the time.” Her lips twitched, just slightly. “Good forest, though. Proper wild. None of that pruned and polished nonsense. Just trees and fog and whatever’s lurking in it.” Her tone didn’t suggest whether that was a good or bad thing. Maybe both.

She let her head fall to the side, glancing at Sinclair before looking away again. “I had a crow. Merlot.” The name alone was enough to make her expression soften, her lips quirking—not quite a smile, but as close as she got most days. “He’s a little bastard. He thinks he owns the place. Probably does.” A quiet chuckle, almost to herself.

And then, just like that, she was done talking about herself. No mention of her family, no unnecessary details. Syrah didn't like to give people a map to who she was. If they wanted to figure her out, they could get lost in the woods and do it the hard way.

Syrah finally flicked her eyes over to her, expression unreadable. “Farm girl and city girl. Sounds like the start of a bad joke.” A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, barely there. “Or a tragic novel.”

And Sinclair didn't push for a proper answer either. The boundaries, though subtle, had been set and she was fine with it. A big old manor. Sounds beautiful...And a crow? Charming.

"It does, doesn't it?" the corner of her lips curl as she turns and catches Syrah's gaze, just staring for a moment in thought. Can two people bond without knowing all that much about each other? Something tells Sinclair that this may be their dynamic moving forward, but she didn't dislike it. Getting all the answers at once spoils the fun of finding out, does it not? "Being near that wild forest," she starts, "..sounds like a good place to grow up. But I may be biased." Sinclair lets the silence fall again, adjusting and shutting her eyes once more.

She has to admit, she misses it. The autumn leaves, the rotting bark, metal and splintering wood, the humid spring air, the crunch of wood shavings, the sleet in January... Biting cold and fallen antlers, the silent pursuit and adrenaline in her throat, the smell of shotgun smoke and the iron that floods her nose when the meat is hung up to bleed. And, her parents. And maybe the ducks and chickens waddling over to get fed. Sinclair silently watches the ceiling in thought.

She let Sinclair’s words settle between them, watching her out of the corner of her eye. Syrah wasn’t the type to pry, not when she didn’t want the same done to her. But she recognized something in the way Sinclair spoke. That way people talked when their mind was elsewhere—somewhere far off.

“It does, doesn’t it?” she said, regarding Sinclair with a thoughtful glance when she called the manor beautiful. “People always imagine grand ballrooms and chandeliers when they hear ‘manor,’ but ours was cold. Drafty.” Her voice remained even, indifferent. “Good for hiding in, though.”

Her fingers tapped lightly against her knee. “The forest, though—that was something.” It wasn’t nostalgia exactly, but the only part of home she didn’t mind talking about. “The trees stretched so far, you’d think they swallowed the whole world. No roads, no fences. Just the sound of the wind and Merlot screaming bloody murder whenever someone came near.”

Merlot was the only thing she spoke of with any kind of fondness. She let the words sit for a moment before tilting her head slightly toward Sinclair. “You’d have liked it.” A pause. “Well, the forest, at least. The house would’ve driven you mad.”

She let the silence settle again, perfectly fine with it.

Her eyes stayed fixated at the ceiling. "Merlot sounds like quite a personality," she smiles faintly, noting the fondness she had for this pet. "I'd like to go to the forbidden forest someday. I managed to stay by the entrance. Didn't enter because I don't think I am equipped with enough spells yet. I may enjoy exploring but I am not an idiot." Sinclair pauses, "The smell of that place..." she shuts her eyes and breathes in slowly, as if reliving that moment she stood by the trees, that thick, humid, unsettling scent coming from deep within the woods. "... I think we'd both enjoy being there."

Ever since she'd gone beyond her usual spots on Hogwarts grounds and met with that twisted forest, she had this gnawing feeling of wanting to explore it. Having already scouted a lot of the nature surrounding the castle, the forbidden forest was like some kind of uncharted territory for her that she felt should be conquered. She couldn't help but wonder what kind of creatures she'd encounter... or better yet, bones.

Already, her wishful thinking has her imagining doing some "target practice" on various creatures (or non-creatures). Or, exploring the woods with Syrah... Investigating how magic manifests in the forest...

The way Sinclair described the forest—like it was something more than just trees and shadows—made Syrah glance at her, watching the way she shut her eyes, as if she could summon the scent of damp earth and wild magic just by thinking about it. It was interesting. Syrah had never been to the Forbidden Forest herself, but she understood the pull of it.

Her gaze flicked toward Sinclair briefly. “Most people talk about the Forbidden Forest like it’s a death sentence,” she said, voice flat. “You make it sound like an invitation.”

There was a pause, then a slight tilt of her head. “Not that I disagree.”

It was true. If there was any place around Hogwarts that actually felt like it had a pulse, like it was alive in a way the castle wasn’t, it was the forest. There was something about a place that didn’t tolerate weakness, where everything had to fight to exist.

She exhaled, closing her eyes briefly. “You’d have to be careful. It's dangerous there.”

A moment of quiet passed before she opened one eye lazily. “Still. If you ever go, let me know.” It wasn’t quite an offer, not fully, but it was something.

Oh, is someone a little interested? Sinclair assumes that if Syrah wasn't interested at all, she likely wouldn't have worded it that way. The blonde girl seemed to be the type that was careful about her words, after all. It was a nature that Sinclair appreciated.

She chuckles lowly, "Mhm..how kind of you to show concern for my safety. I'll send you a fancy invitation, my dear lady." Sinclair smirks, then stifles a casual little yawn. Was the comment casually inviting or was it simply a reflection of the kind of media the young Gryffindor watched at home? Either way, it seemed she was getting more comfortable around Syrah and laying in a public setting- enough so that she was getting genuinely tired. What could she say? The calm stretches of silence, dim lighting, casual talk... and the fact that she had landed flat on her face from being rear-ended by someone else probably contributed to her lack of energy.

"...I'm going to sleep. And you... hm, get well soon. Not sure if you'd be here when I wake, but I'm going to hope the next time we meet is not when we're both feeling trash," she turns her head to curl her lips lazily at Syrah.

Syrah glanced at Sinclair, her expression unreadable, but there was something quieter in the way she looked at her—something almost contemplative. An invitation. The thought was oddly amusing, though she didn’t say as much. Instead, she let out a slow breath, her voice softer than usual.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” she admitted, her eyes flickering briefly to the side before settling back on Sinclair.

She studied Sinclair for a moment as the girl got more comfortable, watching the way her posture loosened, her tone easing into something more casual. It wasn’t something Syrah actively thought about, but she noticed it nonetheless. It was strange, seeing someone relax around her so quickly.

She shifted slightly, rolling her aching shoulders before exhaling slowly. Sinclair looked ready to pass out, and honestly, Syrah didn’t blame her. This place was way too comfortable for its own good.

At the mention of their next meeting, Syrah let out a small, tired scoff, rubbing at her nose absently. “Wouldn’t bet on it,” she murmured, though for once, it didn’t sound dismissive.

She turned away, stifling a sneeze into the crook of her arm. A quiet sniff followed. She tilted her head back slightly, gaze drifting away again.

Still, she didn’t say anything else. Just let the silence settle between them again, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.