When going to hide PV Bridget Finished

@Ruthie Greer

School was a routine for Bridget. Waking up early, eating breakfast before the Great Hall was too full of noisy students, classes, hours of homework, Quidditch practice, repeat. And in the odd moments of free time in between, she would do one of three things. Her first option was the library. It had practically been her home in her first year when she wasn't a part of any school activities and didn't have a friend to speak of, a haven where she could escape from her loneliness and try to make up for all the years she didn't know magic existed. Despite her rather fanatic reading, she felt as though she'd hardly made a dent in the vast collection of books the school held. As such, she was back at her reading this year, although with not nearly as much fervor. Between the friend she'd finally picked up (if Thora and her even were still friends) and her role on Slytherin's Quidditch team, she simply didn't have as much time as she did last year.

And, of course, reading wasn't the only way she spent her free time. After curfew especially, she would stay up drawing in her sketchbook, adding to the collection of scenes she'd recreated of the magnificent castle. But the third option, the one she'd opted for today, was additional Quidditch practice. Working with her team was perfectly fine, but it simply wasn’t enough. Bridget, being the worst beater in the league by a long shot, knew she would have to put in quite a bit more work before she’d ever feel at least like she didn’t hurt her team. Often she’d simply fly around, weaving in and out of the pitch and practicing her in-the-air speed and agility. After all, if she couldn’t fly well, how would she ever be able to hit bludgers at people too? The flying was the part she liked—the wind on her face, the adrenaline of hurtling through the air. If she was sure no one was around to see, she would try, however futilely, to do push-ups, hoping that would improve her rather nonexistent strength. So far, it hadn’t worked. But with their second game of the year approaching, this time against Ravenclaw, the brunette was determined to get better so they wouldn’t lose again.

Most of the time, she only came out to practice Quidditch when it was raining, knowing most people would be inside and she’d have the pitch to herself. Today was only overcast and chilly with a light breeze, not terrible weather, but with any luck most students would stick indoors. Crossing the field, her Nimbus 1700 in hand, the snake’s sharp hazel eyes surveyed her surroundings. Breathing a sigh of relief, she brushed a strand of thick brown hair that had flown into her face away. She had the pitch to herself. Mounting her broom, she spotted a flash of blonde hair in a single ray of sunlight that broke through the clouds. There--across the way near the school broom shed. Squinting a bit, Bridget realized who it was.

Ruthie Greer. The name made her stomach knot up. She certainly didn’t hate the first year, but recalling how the girl had stepped away from her as if Bridget were something she couldn’t bear to look at had hurt. Still, she didn’t think it would sit well on her conscience to just leave the Ravenclaw all alone, apparently polishing her broom, without even acknowledging her. And she wanted to know so badly what she’d done wrong. Crossing the rest of the pitch, she hung awkwardly a few feet away, giving the girl her space. If their last interaction at the errand had proved anything, it was that Ruthie probably didn’t want Bridget to get too close.

”Um… hey there. Ruthie, right?” A terrible introduction, but that was the only kind of introduction the socially failing Slytherin was capable of. She steeled herself for the girl to look up, for recognition to flash in her eyes, for her to reject her. It would probably be just as painful this time, no matter how much she anticipated it, but Bridget had to know she tried to make things right.

There was a small creak in the wood that cut across the air in broom shed. Ruthie's hand stopped midway across her Comet's broom handle for fear that she was no longer alone. Her eyes darted between the shelves and walls, hoping for a rat or other rodent to crawl by. But there was no rodent, no insect, not even an abnormally large flick of dust. Instead, there came a person. Ruthie swallowed some of the saliva down the back of her throat when she was forced to look up at her new companion her awkward-at-best greeting. “That’s right. Everyone knows me now,” Ruthie said, half chuckling as if to cover up how uncomfortable a thought that was. Putting the rag back atop the broom, she continued, “Funny, I unwittingly found the secret to popularity: invite a boy to the ball, where he nearly gets kidnapped and killed. Then suddenly everyone knows you.” She looked down at her hands and the wood, wishing for that simple time when she could just come out a place like this and be unrecognized, a time when she didn't back away from people seemly randomly just because they happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, a time when she didn't have giants terrorizing her dreams. She'd give anything to have that time back.

And that was when she finally looked up. She had to blink to adjust to the light, but the girl was familiar in more ways than one. “And you’re…" she stopped herself as flashes of the Ball reentered her mind, "was it, Bridget?” She was fairly certain it was. She vaguely recalled the autumn clearing errand, the one where she separated herself from the entire group because she really couldn't deal with people. She was getting better though, slowly. Still, Bridget hadn't just been there. She'd been at the ball and Ruthie didn't know how to deal with that. She'd talked to Lark and Dymph since, but they were friends--in fact the trauma had strengthened their friendship. But she didn't know how to talk about the ball and its lasting effects on her with someone she didn't know.

“I didn’t expect anyone to be here,” she admitted honestly and quietly as she turned her hand back to polishing. Maybe if she busied herself with a tactile task, time would just move quickly. Obviously, she'd come here to hide, which was more recent these days, but maybe it wouldn't be so bad if Bridget just stayed here quietly too. That was almost as good as hiding. "Polish is on the shelf if you were looking for some," she directed, attempting to give Bridget something to do--anything except talk about the ball. Perhaps Bridget wasn't so bad. Time would tell.

For @Bridget Collins

@Ruthie Greer

Bridget cringed as Ruthie froze mid-polish. Now came the part where she looked up, where she realized who it was… Except, she didn't look up. No, instead the Ravenclaw started saying something about how everyone knew who she was, the comment followed by a mirthless laugh. But what Ruthie mentioned next was what really got the brunette's attention. The ball. Kidnapped. Nearly killed.

The short girl blinked in surprise. Sure, she wasn't very active in the social aspects of Hogwarts and certainly didn't waste her time listening to rumors and gossip, but this was news to her. Hazel eyes looking the other girl over again, searching for any details that stood out, she tried to fit Ruthie into her jumbled mess of memories and fleeting images of that awful night. She knew for a fact she'd seen Ruthie at the ball, but where? Besides a few vivid recollections of the fires, the pool of blood, and Dan stabbing the half-giant in the eye, most of the night was a blur. The first year's curly blonde hair--something was familiar about it. Then it clicked. A boy with a knife in his back. Thora running over to him and another girl. A girl who must've been Ruthie.

No wonder the girl sitting across from Bridget hated her. Although the Slytherin had tried to give the huddled trio cover by levitating a tablecloth into the half-giant's eyes, the action probably went unnoticed, the dying boy taking precedence over Ruthie's attention. Anyways, if Ruthie had been with Thora she would know that Bridget, who was supposed to be Thora's friend, had left her to the dangers in that room like a complete coward and terrible friend.

Finally, Ruthie looked up. Bridget winced in advance, waiting for the well-deserved hatred to come, but it never did. "Yeah," she said lamely, probably looking rather dazed. "It's Bridget." Maybe the Ravenclaw was just waiting for confirmation it was her before starting her tirade. When she still didn't show any signs of loathing, Bridget started to wonder if maybe Ruthie was tired and hadn't remembered what a failure of a person she was yet. Or maybe she just didn't have the energy to criticize her. Whatever the case, Bridget jumped on Ruthie's gesture to the broom polish. Grabbing a pot of polish and a stained rag, she settled on the old, dusty floor, back against one of the shed's walls, trying to give Ruthie as much space as possible. It sounded like she too had been hoping for a bit of alone time, which the snake could definitely relate to. And it was only a matter of time before the eagle recalled who Bridget was, what she'd done that night, but she still didn't feel it would be right to leave just yet. Dipping the cloth into the now opened pot of polish, which was miraculously the right color, Bridget got to work on the Nimbus' shaft. Her broom didn't really need the polish, it being new and all, but it was better than having nothing to do but fidget and try to think of something to say.

"Are you looking forward to the Quidditch match?" she asked, an attempt to lighten the discomfort that seemed to make the air heavier, weighing down on her shoulders. They would, after all, be playing each other soon, and at the moment Bridget was desperate for anything to keep Ruthie's mind off the ball...

It was indeed, Bridget. At least she hadn't gotten that part wrong. There already seemed to be tension in the air, which was probably her doing, whether conscious or not. Her post-Masked Ball trauma had led her to live in this constant stress and paranoia. It was involuntary like breathing, but if she could do anything to minimize it--like remembering a name correctly--she would. "Good, well, there we are then," she admitted awkwardly as she gently moved the rag across her broom handle.

As she did so, she noticed that Bridget took to polishing her own broom very quickly. Whether she was in for that original purpose indeed or whether she was just trying to avoid the tension too didn't matter much. Bridget took her broom, polish and rag and sat out on the floor, on the ground. She seemed to pick a spot as far away from the blonde as possible. Maybe Ruthie wasn't the only one avoiding people? Ruthie didn't like it. It was like seeing herself out in front of her and this horrible way of avoiding people was so counter to her natural extroverted and bubbly self.

Working on her own broom, she couldn't help but notice Bridget's. "Is that a Nimbus?" she asked weakly, but genuinely curious. She loved her Comet, which she wouldn't have been able to afford had she not won it, but she did imagine the day she might able to upgrade it and a Nimbus was, by reputation, one of the absolute best. She couldn't help feeling a little bit jealous.

While she was making good progress on her own broom, she heard Bridget bring up the upcoming Quidditch match. The blonde raised her hand to her face, feeling a bit silly for not recalling that Bridget was on one of the teams. Of course, she wasn't really remembering very much of anything these days. "Yeah, it'll be brilliant," she said, mustering some enthusiasm, "Thora's quite keen. I hope she gets some time on the pitch." Like Thora, Bridget had to be play for Slytherin, but she couldn't recall the make of that team save Erin, who was almost as frightening as a half-giant. "What position do you play again?" she asked weakly. This was terrible. She used to be better at making friends--or just meeting people at all. How long was this crippling awkwardness going to last? She could only hope Bridget--or anyone--didn't think it was their fault. But Ruthie couldn't exactly express what was going on with her emotionally because she didn't completely understand it. She was helpless at the trauma of that night and she clung to any stroke of normalcy she could find. And so carried on with the mundane task because it was normal. Talking about Quidditch, too, was normal and she had Bridget to thank for that even if she had intruded on her quiet time.

For @Bridget Collins

@Ruthie Greer

Now that Bridget had settled down, her rapid movements slowed to a gentle, methodical scrubbing at the splinter-free wood of her Nimbus. Bridget was still in awe that she owned such an impressive broom--it was so much faster, smoother, and overall better than her previous Shooting Star and all the school brooms. It was a marvel she'd even been able to afford it, and although the purchase had left her broke, she didn't regret the purchase one bit.

They worked in silence for awhile, a time Bridget spent watching Ruthie out of the corner of her eye, waiting for Ruthie to figure out who she was, what she'd done. By now, the Slytherin was starting to wonder if Ruthie was going to say anything about her abandonment of Thora at all.

"Oh... yeah. Nimbus 1700. I just got it, actually," she said in response. Glancing at Ruthie's broom--some sort of Comet, it looked like--Bridget was pretty sure the Ravenclaw was jealous of her better broom. Twisting the fabric of the rag between her fingers, she suddenly felt quite self-conscious of the possession. Luckily, Ruthie answered her question about their upcoming match, although the small girl wasn't entirely sure if she was genuinely looking forward to it or being sarcastic. Bridget nodded in agreement when Ruthie said she hoped Thora got to play. She too shared the hope--Thora worked hard at every practice and was a pretty proficient flier. She deserved to play, maybe even more than Bridget did. At the same time, Thora getting in the game unfortunately meant they would have lost Koko, and on top of Bridget not wishing any of her teammates (except maybe Alexx) that fate, Koko was pretty much a wall in front of their goalposts and losing her would at the very least hurt team morale.

"Beater," she muttered. It wouldn't take much effort for Ruthie to tell she wasn't very proud of the fact, nor much observation to see she was not built for the role at all--the Slytherin was small and, well, pretty wimpy. There was a reason she got the spot, of course, and that was that she could consistently hit her target dead-on. However, what did it matter if she could hit someone if there was no way her utter lack of strength would knock them off their broom?

Shaking away the self-doubt, not wanting to dissolve into a pity party at the moment, she realized she too had no idea what position Ruthie played. She knew the Ravenclaw was on her House team, and thinking back she could remember seeing her in her match against Gryffindor, but having not known the first year then she hadn't paid any attention to her position. "What position do you play?"

"Chaser," she replied confidently. It was perhaps the only role she felt secure in these days. Ravenclaw, yes, but she'd been detached from her housemates. Friend, perhaps a terrible one. Student, well, only if her mother didn't force her to leave the school after all the chaos that had gone on. That and failing Transfiguration probably wasn't great. Even the Great Lake, where she had previously found solace, was proving problematic after Shauna's accident. The field and the position she occupied in it was the only bit of normalcy she had these days.

That's what made the Comet so precious. But Bridget's Nimbus. From the way it shined with the effect of the polish, the Nimbus looked as fancy as she might imagine it hanging in a shop window. And that might not have been so long ago as Bridget explained it was new. "It's really pretty," she said genuinely. What she meant of course was that looked fierce, strong and tough as a racing broom should be, but once again her word choice failed her in the face of talking to a stranger. It was a stranger who seemed oddly unsure of herself from her voice; whereas Ruthie sought confidence in her role as a Chaser, it seemed that perhaps Bridget didn't. Under other circumstances, Ruthie would have tried to bolster the girl's confidence. After all, Bridget seemed smart and she had a great broom. But these were not those circumstances.

They were very fragile circumstances. As she rubbed the tip of her broom, she didn't know how much longer she could handle this bizarre and uncomfortable attempt at small talk. It turned out not long at all. Within moments, she could feel her lip quiver, giving way to words: “Look, this is awkward. It’s not your fault. I just…can’t talk to people anymore. I want to—I want it to be normal again, to just talk, make a friend, eat a pumpkin pasty—but I just can’t.” The stops and gaps in her speech were far from how she normally spoke and her strong Scottish accent even more pronounced, if that was possible. Her fingers wrapped around the broomstick more tightly than they might even in a match. The rag she had been holding fell to the ground like an autumn leaf.

As she felt a tear build up in the corner of her eye, she instinctively turned away from Bridget. This was not happening again. She'd already broken down in front of Lark. That had been enough. She didn't need to disturb the peace of people she didn't know. Standing up, she reached out for a railing on the wooden wall, but there wasn't any. Her palm only felt the vertical grain of wood, and it was unsatisfying. Like she could run her hand down it and still fall. As she raised her sleeve to her eye, she addressed her companion with her back still towards her, “I’m sorry. You should go. I shouldn’t inflict myself on you. No one should be around someone who sees—" Who sees giants, she stopped herself. Sees giants and weird winged horses. Bridget probably already thought she was freak. It wouldn't be good for her to think she was crazy on top of it. “—who can’t speak to people,” she corrected herself. Her breathing was quickening so she stood there in an inadequate attempt to slow it down. Talking to her friends had been hard enough, but they'd always accept her. Who knew what Bridget might do, but she would hope for compassion. After all, hadn't Bridget been at the ball too? Ruthie recalled seeing her there, even if she didn't exactly know what she'd done--she had been near that flying table cloth. Whatever she'd done, she must have seen horrible things too. Was that enough for empathy?

For @Bridget Collins

@Ruthie Greer

So Ruthie was a Chaser. Although she still couldn't recall the Ravenclaw vs. Gryffindor game, she could picture the blonde soaring through the air and tossing a Quaffle through the hoops.

Ruthie was staring at her Nimbus again, commenting after a minute on how pretty her broom was. Flushing, the Slytherin's eyes dropped to the shaft of her prized possession. With its shiny, smooth shaft and perfectly aligned bristles, the item could certainly be described as pretty, but Bridget had the feeling that wasn't what Ruthie meant. No, the Ravenclaw meant it was impressive, fast, tough, the kind of broom she wished she owned.

And then Ruthie's praise of her broom was the last thing she was thinking about. The shift happened so fast Bridget wasn't sure what had caused it. One moment they were talking normally and the next Ruthie was turned away from her and having what looked like some sort of meltdown. Maybe she was crying, maybe she wasn't, but regardless it was clear she didn't want Bridget around anymore. Sure, there had been discomfort before, but the Slytherin hadn't suspected anything like this.

Ruthie was saying something about how she couldn't talk to people, apologizing. She was blaming herself, but Bridget had the feeling it had more to do with her. Of course it had more to do with her--she pretty much ruined the atmosphere of any room she walked into and made people uncomfortable whenever she tried to make conversation. It was her fault she was such a social failure. Maybe Bridget should've just left like she was asked to. No matter how she tried to convince herself Ruthie was right, to leave the blonde to the solitude she wanted, all she could think of was how it would be just like leaving Thora alone at the ball because she didn't know how to help, because she was a useless coward. She couldn't walk away again.

Where did that leave her, though? Ruthie didn't want to talk. Ruthie didn't want her there at all, so if she was going to stay, she'd have to make it count. Quietly returning the pot of polish and rag to the shelf she'd found them on, Bridget picked up her broom and took a deep breath.

"Dyawannaridemybroom?" The words came out too fast, all jumbled together and incoherent. Her eyes widened, wishing she could just disappear and escape from the crushing embarrassment.

"I mean," she squeaked. "If you want, you can take a fly on my Nimbus."

Things had gone from terrible to worse-than-terrible. Ruthie hated this--how since the ball she seemed to have lost all control over her emotions, not to mention her actions. She didn't know what this was and doubted others did. Who would have suspected being 11 years old would be so difficult? Who would have known the chaos Hogwarts would bring to her life? Perhaps her mother was right--she should leave.

Her back was still towards the other girl, when she heard the the Slytherin offer an extraordinarily strange idea. Turning with eyes wide, her eye brows raised as she tried to dissemble the quickly knotted words. Did she want to ride Bridget's broom? Was the Pope Catholic? Of course, she would dream of riding a broom like Bridget's. But she took a few strands of her hair and curled them around her fingers, unsure this was for real. She looked across at her companion, who was quick to correct herself and lengthen out her words into normal speech.

"Really?" Ruthie beamed, as excitement poked out behind those tear-producing eyes.

Her hand reached out slowly to touch Bridget's broomstick with envy, but stopped just short. As her fingers fell to her side, she began to grind her teeth and think. This morning and in recent days, it seemed like her feelings had been driving her behavior. It was about time to stop and really think. "Why are you being so nice to me?" she asked with a sniffle. It was one thing for Lark and Dymph to react kindly to her--they were her best friend and mentor respectively. But a stranger? It seemed uncanny.

To be fair, Bridget wasn't a complete stranger. They were in SWAG together and Ru knew she'd seen her in the Ball. A friend of Thora's she suspected. But that was stranger than anyone else. And it wasn't like she had exactly been nice to Bridget. She'd been polite and that was hard enough with her lingering anxieties from the Ball. So, this wasn't about reciprocity. There was the drama of her outburst, which could never be completely discounted. But Ruthie knew there was something deeper: she wasn't normal.

"It's because I'm pathetic, isn't it?" she gushed. There were plenty of words she could have used to describe how she felt others perceived her and none of them were great. Eris Fawley's "random screaming girl" moniker seemed like a compliment at this point. The reality was she felt like everyone knew her at this point, knew what happened at the Ball, knew to stay away from the chronically crazy girl. But Bridget was still here--still here and nice. Merlin knows why. Still she looked up and over at her companion, her expression honest as her eyes wide.

For @Bridget Collins

@Ruthie Greer

Bridget smiled encouragingly as Ruthie reached out to grab the broom. Things were going well and the Slytherin began to wonder if for once she'd actually handled herself well in a social situation... and then Ruthie's hand stopped, recoiled back to her side. Of course Bridget hadn't succeeded. How could she even think she could make a stranger feel better?

It just got worse. If Ruthie had simply declined her offer, Bridget could've left, but instead the first year asked why she was being nice to her. Why was she being nice to Ruthie? Biting her lip, Bridget knew that was a question she couldn't answer. Not honestly, anyways. Because the truthful reason was selfish. She wanted to prove to herself she wasn't just a worthless, useless, cowardly person. She wanted to know she was better than that. And while Bridget was occasionally predisposed to blunt honesty, she knew she couldn't say that out loud.

"It's because I'm pathetic, isn't it?" Ruthie asked. Bridget's eyes widened in horror. Of all possible conclusions Ruthie could've come to, this was probably the worst one. Things were not going well at all. Everything was going very, very wrong.

"N-No. No, that's not it at all," Bridget said, flustered. "It's just... I couldn't just leave you like that. Not after I left you and Thora and everyone else at the ball." There. She'd said it. Now Ruthie would remember what a horrible person she'd been that night. Her lip started to quiver. Bridget turned away, blinking back rapidly forming tears as the guilt surfaced. No, she couldn't cry now. This was already awkward enough. And besides, Ruthie was still a stranger. Bridget couldn't let herself cry in front of her.

Turning back to the Ravenclaw, Bridget shoved the broom out again. "Seriously, take it. Flying always makes me feel better. And... I don't think you're pathetic. If it had been me, and my best friend ended up with a knife in the back..." She stopped. She couldn't finish that sentence aloud, but her brain completed the terrifying thought for her. If Thora had been stabbed, Bridget would've completely lost her head. She would be living every day, drowning in guilt from the constant reminder of the scar that would exist for the rest of Thora's life. It was a thought that, even in theory, squeezed the air out of her lungs. It was a thought she couldn't bear to think, so she shoved it down with the rest of the guilt she was constantly avoiding.

Her arm was starting to ache from holding the Nimbus out so long and if Ruthie were to look closely, she would see it starting to shake, yet another sign of how pathetically weak she was for a beater. Whatever confidence she'd had that she was doing the right thing by staying started to flicker. She should've left. She should've never even walked over. Come on, Ruthie, take it.