Cec and Desist PV Closed

Surprisingly, it had been quite some time since Cecily had made a home at one of the many tables dotted throughout the library. Although it was one of her most frequent haunts in her first and second year, the frequency in which she visited its shelves had decreased rapidly as the years progressed, as the Ravenclaw now preferred spending time outside with a book, rather than in the dusty shelves of the castle.

As she stepped through the great doors, though, she was hit with a wave of nostalgia. The vaulting ceilings, the endless rows of stacks, the glittering chandeliers, all reminded her why she had spent so much time in this place, this haven for outcasts and nerds. It was homely and awesome at the same time; both inspiring and familiar. Even after all this time, even after three years, it was difficult not to gawk. Cecily had missed this place, she realised, a hint of a smile touching her lips.

She tried to refocus on her task at hand, though, as she made her way to a vacant table. She was behind in her classes-- like, way behind. It was barely the second week of classes! And yet, somehow, she had managed to already slack off. She supposed Ami was rubbing off on her more than she'd like to admit. Maybe she should be spending less time with the trouble-making redhead and more with, say, Celynne. Cel would keep Cecily on track, the blonde was sure. But until she hit a truly low point and set aside her pride to go crawling to the more studious Ravenclaw in desperation, she would have to keep herself on track.

Cecily dumped her books on the table, recalling just a moment too late how deafening any sound could be in such a silent place. The heavy stack of paper and leather hit the wood with a resounding thud, and Cecily stood there for a beat, flushed, shrinking into herself. After the moment passed, she slowly lowered herself into her seat, the red fading from her face as she laid out a sheet of parchment, her quill, and a jar of ink, shaking the thought that any wary eyes had been drawn to her back by the noise.

But apparently there were to be other factors standing in the way of Cecily and her good marks today, other than her own stubborn disinterest in all things class related. Namely: the blonde-haired, quite frustrated student to her left vigorously destructing her parchment with fervor. Cecily was sure she recognised this girl from somewhere, likely the Ravenclaw Common room, although she couldn't remember seeing her in some time. Cecily watched her go at it for a moment-- she was really, truly, passionately destroying her parchment-- before turning back to her own. Staring down at the blank, yellowing sheet in front of her, Cecily could distinctly understand what was driving the younger girl to commit such an act of vandalism. She had been damn well near that point countless times in the past three years-- although, to be fair, she had never quite hit her breaking point like this other girl appeared to have done.

Cecily stared into the void of her blank parchment for a few seconds more, debating with herself. She could plant her hands on the edge of the table, push back her chair, and stand up to make her way over to the girl; they could commiserate over their misery, their shared pain (for although Cecily could not be sure, it certainly seemed like homework the girl was tearing apart with force). Although... Cecily, trying to hold back a good-humored laugh, chose to not make a move, quill still dangling from her fingers, and instead plant her elbows on the table and simply watch the girl unabashedly, a knowing smile on her lips and a glint in her eye.


p.s. i totally enjoy your pun @Freya Thomas

As Freya continued to rip and shred, she felt a growing satisfaction in destruction. It was as though she had a multitude of energy that she could finally release into something, even if that meant ruining her school work. Failure, though, needed to be eliminated if one wanted to improve, to grow; perhaps this was a sign to the young girl that things would eventually improve.

As she ripped, ferociously gritting her teeth, Freya had a growing feeling of being watched. Something simply felt off, and she took a reprieve from the destruction to see if this feeling had any real substance. Her neck tingled as she paused, hairs jumping to attention as though they were preparing to fight a battle, though they would not find much success. With the confirmation of the feeling, Freya began to look around, eyes settling on an older girl near her.

She had, in fact, been watching. Freya noticed a small smile on the blonde's face, and as she turned back to her task, her brow furrowed in its familiar position of concentration as she tried to comprehend what was so funny about the situation. She might have looked absurd, but Freya found her actions to be certainly sensible, given the circumstances. If anything, it was quite rude for the girl to jump to such conclusions of humor.

Maybe she had seen wrong; fingers hesitated, then slowed. In a quick motion, Freya placed the remainder of the shreds on her table and turned to her right, quizzically staring at the blonde without any commentary, simply taking her in. The blonde's hair was wavy and her eyes were bright turquoise, similar enough to Freya's own eye color that she could have been the second year's less practical older sister. Freya much preferred her own hairstyle: a bowl-cut, which had only been trimmed recently to keep her bangs out of her eyes, the rest of it jagged as though it had not been touched in ages. She didn't need to look good to complete her hobbies; she simply needed to have it manageable. The other girl did not seem to feel similarly, instead keeping her hair long.

Her eyes followed her brows and narrowed as Freya pondered the smirk as she stared at it. Did she think this situation was funny, even though only a desperately despairing person would be tearing up her old work? Would she mock her for her actions? It was certainly betrayal to be destroying parchment in front of its kin. Freya almost wanted to mock the girl for her nosiness, but, if memory served her, she had seen her around the common room before. The blonde was older. She could certainly destroy her in a duel, whether that was written, verbal, or physical.

She didn't want to, but there was only one option: give the girl the benefit of the doubt. The girl hadn't done anything; there was no reason to attack her...yet. Freya had been let down by some of her first impressions from others, however, so further discussion would need to happen in order to get confirmation that this was the truth.

Maintaining her face of stoicism, Freya whispered, "Hello?" She didn't know what else to say, nor did she want to say anything more. Let the Quaffle remain on her side of the pitch, she figured; see what her the older girl responds with before taking action. Then Freya could decide if she wanted to risk dueling humiliation in front of all the library's patrons.

It was rather uncharacteristic of Cecily to make eye contact with a stranger, particularly when it was uncalled for. So when the younger girl looked up and seemed to study Cecily in a strange way, the blonde looked back down at her desk, her eyes moving over words yet not comprehending any of them. Shortly, she looked back up, with a considerably more stoic face, unexpectedly meeting the eyes of the other girl once again. She was slightly unsettled by the girl's intense, prolonged stare, yet held her ground. The aggressive destruction of the parchment had stopped, a deep silence falling over the two. Yet, awkward wasn't a word Cecily would use to describe the feeling that hung between the two girls. It was closer to... curiosity. Cecily was curious about this strange girl, a girl she was now fairly confident she had seen before in the common room. And it seemed to Cecily like the other girl had no shame in her inquisitive gaze.

It was the younger girl who first broke the silence. A tentative "hello," a quiet greeting. Cecily was both prepared for and taken aback by the sound, not quite sure what she had expected but perhaps glad for the invitation into conversation. A moment of silence once more; then, Cecily pushed back her chair and moved to the other girl's table, taking a seat across from her. "Hi," she said quietly, almost as if to avoid spooking the younger girl. "I'm Cecily." Her quill still hung from her fingers, for no purpose other than she had simply forgotten it was there.

Although Freya had been expecting a battle, having grabbed her quill once more and tightening her grip as she waited for the reply, it seemed that the other girl had a docile energy despite her ill-placed humor. It seemed that she possibly lacked a bit in the politeness department, as well, given that she just took a seat without an invitation, but as Freya was quite aware that most children did not grow up around adults and pipes, she let that fault slide.

Freya matched the girl's volume, though she wasn't certain why, hand relaxing with each word: "I'm Freya. Second year. Ravenclaw, though I'm sure you knew that."

Their hushed whispers reminded Freya of cold summer nights, when Dad, after a hard day of work, would still take the time to light a fire. They'd whisper so as not to wake Granddad from his slumbers as he rested from the exertion, telling jokes and ghost stories until the embers diminished into smoke. Sometimes, they'd stay up so late that Freya, even at twelve, would fall asleep, and she'd awaken to her parents gently murmuring words of affection or her father tucking her into bed. The best days were before she knew there was an end date to those moments, when she'd board a train to a dumb magic school and would have to wait nearly a whole year for the real magic.

She dropped her quill, not realizing it still had been cradled by her cupped hand, eyes glistening with tears. The contact of quill with wood jolted Freya back to where she was: in a library. Not with her parents, but also not alone. With Cecily.

Cecily may not be Caelin Thomas, but she was what Freya had right now, and maybe she could help ease the homesickness that had been infesting Hogwarts for ages. Ripping her D hadn't done much, so she might as well try. Right hand returning to brush the quill, left hand rubbing her scalp, Freya looked at Cecily with her trademark furrowed brow and asked, "Do you know any campfire stories? Like a joke or a ghost story? I know there's no fire but..."