Who needs sleep anyway? PV Amara Dragamior Fin.

“Well,” Vincent replied to Amara, “Looks like the cook indeed made a mistake… or rather completely messed up the Falafel.” Vincent grinned. “It was dry as bone dust, honestly. I think I had to swallow three bottles of water to get it down. And keep it there. I never told her though, I just couldn’t. She was so proud she even had the guts to try and prepare it.” Again Vincent chuckled. He would never forget this awful first introduction to Falafel. “I’ll make sure to tell her next time I see her, though.” He cast a glance at Amara and to his shock he noticed something had changed. It took a second to let it sink in before he became fully aware of what it was that had changed. Her bandages. They seemed to have lost their drenched, blood stained appearance. Instead they were almost dry and had returned to the just off-white color bandages usually are, as if they were never used, as if there never had been any blood. Amazing! Nevertheless, as amazing as it looked, he wasn’t going to mention any it to Amara. There was no way he would start talking about anything that might remotely have anything to do with what had happened this night. Not again. He made that mistake twice tonight and that were the only times he allowed himself to have made it.

Not sure if Amara had caught sight of his glare or noticed the subsequent internal debate, he quickly looked away and made a study of his hands to cover up his confusion and, also, frustration. He didn’t want her to think he was still and only focused on her wound. He wasn’t even really, he was genuinely interested in the person sitting next to him, regardless the cause and reason of the ordeal she had to go through at, as he assumed, certain intervals. For now he honestly couldn’t care less about that, that might be subject to a conversation at the right time, if at all. Perhaps there might never be a right time. Either way, no matter how hard he fought the urge, his attention kept getting drawn to it. Not too strange, though, after all it was something not many eleven year old boys had ever witnessed, and its severity had quite an impact.

Vincent noted, to his relief, Amara didn’t seem to have noticed his stares, or, if she had, didn’t mention it. She answered him explaining her favorite Israeli salad to him. He only caught half its name as he was still studying his hands, that really weren’t all that special to be honest. He had a tiny scratch on his right hand, probably from one of the many branches he had swept out of the way on his way here, but other than that his hands were undamaged. His nails were clean and kept short, something his mother had taught him to do the moment he could handle the nail clippers. No, there really wasn’t that much interesting to spot, he was just trying to avoid getting his gaze drawn at Amara’s bandages again. Luckily he heard the list of ingredients completely, so his reply wouldn’t be awkward. However, before he replied to that, he first asked her what house she was in.

The reaction was as unexpected as it was defusing, as Amara started to laugh and continued to do so throughout her reply, all the while apologizing for it. Vincent looked at her and smiled widely, a look of comprehension on his face, his eyes glistening with pleasure. He was relieved she apparently felt comfortable enough to laugh, who cares whether her reaction was proper or not? “Are you kidding me? Not the proper response?” Vincent burst out laughing. “Trust me Amara, this is the best response I could ask for. You have no idea how great it is to see you relax a little and laugh. Besides, if you don’t mind me asking, what exactly is the proper response to a question like this anyway?" Like Amara he kept laughing as he paused a few seconds before then answering her question. “I’m an eagle.” he simply stated and then continued to discuss her choice of salad. “The Tabbawhatchacallit seems a nice enough salad to me. I obviously never had it, but I sure am willing to give it a try. If anything it sounds delicious. Do you think we can get our hands on it or its ingredients here at Hogwarts?”

With a deep sigh and a loud smack, Vincent closed his notebook, the shockwave nearly blowing out the flame of the candle sitting on the table next to it. The circumstances were, by his standards, almost perfect. He was alone in the dead of night, it was completely silent and the only light source was a single candle. Nevertheless... "Really, this isn't going anywhere." he thought. "The concept in itself isn't bad, not at all even, I just can't find the direction I want this to go in. At least not at the moment."

He scrutinized the creased black cover of the source of all his stories, his collection of ideas, story lines and unfinished narratives, his notebook. The color in the worn out creases had mostly disappeared, leaving an intricate pattern of white lines in the black surface, that appeared to change constantly in the flickering light of the flame. It had obviously seen a lot of action, proof of a rough life. As he had done many times before while considering a story idea, Vincent tried to find any logic in the pattern, an outline of a recognizable figure perhaps. He found none. What he did find though, was the fact his notebook clearly neared the end if its life. Before long he needed a new notebook, the question was where to obtain one. But, Vincent quickly decided, that was not a problem to address right now.

He let his mind wander off, guided by the outlines of the story he had just written down. He allowed his thought to flow freely for a few minutes before he concluded the latest addition to his collection, the story about the meeting with the girl on the night of the bloodmoon actually was quite promising, so he moved it to the top of his idea list. It wasn't going to be an easy process and definitely wouldn't be completed any time soon though, it needed some careful consideration and development to grow to its full potential. Perhaps even a lot, but it would get there eventually.

Vincent realized how strange it was that hearing just a name could lead to all this. Because that's what got this idea started, the moment he had heard someone in the great hall call out a certain name, a name that almost immediately, though without obvious reason, set his mind into full gear, resulting in this concept of an intriguing story. Amara.

He had no idea who she was or what she looked like, he didn't have the presence of mind, nor felt the urge to find out at that moment. All he knew was her name, a name that had triggered his brain into forming a completely new story line. Quite intriguing actually. He wondered if he perhaps would run into her some day and, if and when he did, if he would tell her about this. Vincent shrugged as he got up, blew out the candle and climbed into his bed. Hopefully he could catch some sleep before the new day started. Still working on various ideas to continue the story, though all pretty vague still, he closed his eyes and fell asleep. Undoubtedly to be continued...