How problematic can it be? Pv. Fire Davies

Her brow furrowed slightly, not out of anger but genuine confusion. She carefully climbed down from the old wooden crate she had stood on to reach a forgotten window overlooking the greenhouse, absentmindedly brushing the invisible dust from her skirt. The warm light of the setting sun filtered through the panes, painting the plant leaves gold and transforming the damp air into a kind of suspended miniature universe. For a moment, she observed the boy in front of her without saying a word, trying to discern whether that stern expression was natural or if he had just improvised it. She had known enough adults to distinguish true authority from borrowed authority. Her grandmother possessed a gaze capable of paralyzing anyone before they even opened their mouth; her grandfather, on the other hand, commanded respect with a smile. The boy in front of her didn't seem to belong to either of those categories. There was something excessively solemn about his posture, like an actor too convinced he was playing a king in a school play. She narrowed her eyes slightly with curiosity as she tucked one of her naturally unruly curls behind her ear.

"Are you a prefect?" she asked with that gentleness that made even the most direct questions seem like an invitation to conversation. There was no irony in her voice, only genuine curiosity. If he really was a prefect, she supposed she should listen to him. If he wasn't… well, that changed things quite a bit.

She closed the distance between them by a couple of steps, just enough to get a better look at his badge, or rather, the lack thereof. Her gaze briefly dropped to the boy's chest before meeting his eyes again. She remained thoughtful for a few seconds, like someone trying to solve a particularly simple riddle and precisely because of that, suspecting they're overlooking something.

“As far as I know…” she finally began, clasping her hands in front of her with an almost ceremonial serenity, “looking doesn't hurt anyone. And I don't recall reading any rule that says it's forbidden to be curious. Although I admit the Hogwarts rulebook is quite long. Perhaps I skipped that part.”

She gave him a small, luminous smile, the kind that seemed incapable of mocking anyone. Her eyes returned to the greenhouse. The enormous tropical leaves swayed gently in the breeze that slipped through a half-open window. The scent of damp earth and freshly watered plants always calmed her. She liked greenhouses because no one expected to find great adventures among potted plants, and yet they were there. Each seed held a promise, each flower had a different story, and some plants seemed to have been waiting for centuries for someone to simply stop and admire them. She turned her attention back to the boy, looking him up and down again.

"I was just looking at the plants. My grandfather always says that the best collections begin with observing before touching. And you? Were you watching the greenhouse or just looking for someone to bother?" She tilted her head slightly to one side. There was a huge difference between the two. The first was an obligation; the second, a choice. And Stelle had always felt that chosen conversations ended up being much more interesting than forced ones. The silence lasted barely a second before an amused expression lit up her face again.

"Because if it was an attempt to scare me, I must say it almost worked. Although I think a prefect would have started by asking my name before scolding me." She placed a hand on her chest with such delicate drama that it was obvious she was playing along. She watched him with renewed curiosity, without the slightest trace of annoyance. On the contrary. There was something charming about people who invented little stories to combat boredom. After all, the most memorable days rarely began in extraordinary ways; they almost always started with an unexpected question, an innocent misunderstanding, or a stranger a little too convinced of their authority for a few minutes. And if this afternoon decided to become one of those stories she would later write in her diary, Stelle wasn't going to stop it. The students around her seemed too engrossed in their own affairs, not giving her the slightest bit of attention among the badgers. Stelle thought about leaving, putting it behind her and simply forgetting about it; it was the easiest thing to do. But it wouldn't look good to run away like a dog with its tail between its legs after a minor confrontation.

"So… Mr. “Prefect,” what's going on? Are you going to accuse me? Should I run?"