Seeds of Doubt Solo Finished

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5 November 2020
Around 18:00

Breath in, breath out.

The rustling of feathers was an ever-present sound in the Owlery. Dealla kind of liked it. Air streamed into her lungs and out again, crisp and clear. She imagined she could taste winter approach in the air. It was certainly getting colder, less comfortable to spend time outside, at least if you didn't keep moving. One of the reasons no one but her felt inclined to linger here, she assumed, just came to send their letters and packages and left again.

Breath in, breath out.

Paper crinkled between her fingers when she bent them, drawing them together into a loose fist. It was a little funny, really, that she'd come out here with a specific reason that she was now busy ignoring. The sound made her uncomfortable, was a reminder of why she was here. It was like an uneasy sensation crawled up inside her arms from the paper, made her want to run, to leave it here. Forget about it, the way she'd tried to for the past month.

Breath in, hold.

Originally, she'd planned to open it the same night, that Saturday she'd received it. Had told herself she just wanted to do it away from prying eyes, with some privacy, and spent the day pretending nothing was wrong. But when night had come, she hadn't been able to make herself. Petrified, she'd stared down at the letter lying on her crossed legs, the small brown package on the blanket next to her, curtains drawn around her bed. Finally, she'd just put them into corner of her trunk, carefully, both letter and package, like they were either terribly breakable, or dangerous, or both. She'd thrown a black jumper she never used on top of them and left them to go back down to the common room. And there they had stayed for almost five weeks, until today, when she'd pulled that jumper she never used out of her trunk and they had been there, staring at her, accusingly. She was wearing that jumper now.

Breath out, slowly.

Dealla squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then opened them again, blinking away the colourful spots dancing in her vision. "Don't be ridiculous." The words were said out loud, cutting through the semi-silence. One of the owls next to her fluttered up at the unexpected sound, settled down in a different place, further away from this odd-acting human. Resolutely, she set the letter down on the windowsill, and turned to untying the simple cord that held the paper around the package shut. It was smooth between her fingers - just because it was simple didn't mean her grandparents did not still value quality.

A shallow breath drawn in.

The wrapping paper unfolded easily below her fingers, revealing a box covered in a smooth, dark green fabric. Satin? Was it called that? She wasn't sure. For a long moment, she just stared at it, trying to gather the will to open it. She didn't like that her fingers were trembling when she reached for it, but at least there was no one there to see.

Air escaped in a gasp.

The lid snapping open revealed... some sort of jewelry. She couldn't place it right away, but it was surely more valuable than anything she'd ever owned, had ever touched, most likely. It was silverish and intricate, loops of delicately shaped metal decorated with pure, perfectly round pearls, the full extent of the construct covering about the span of her hand. A... hair decoration of sort? Nothing meant to actually hold hair back in any way, purely meant to be pretty. And pretty it was, she had to admit.

The tips of her fingers hovered just a centimeter above it, almost touching, but something in her hesitated, recoiled, almost. Pulling her hand back, she snapped it shut. She didn't want to touch any presents from them, it felt too much like she was accepting it. (This resolution wouldn't hold.) Placing it down, Dealla reached for the letter instead, the late autumn air burning cold in her throat. Perhaps reading their letter would bring the same anger it had last time, chase away the bitter taste in her mouth, the dread in her stomach.

She slid her fingertip along the edge of the heavy paper, the same kind that they had used for the letter half a year ago. When it had been delivered that morning, she'd immediately recognised it, right after she had registered the seal and the address, penned in an elegant cursive. That seal was broken without care now, her breath held as she unfolded the single sheet of paper inside.

Friday, 2^nd October 2020

Our dearest Dealla,

we hope that these words find you well. We do not hold against you that you never responded to our last message, or to the offer to visit us during the summer. It must have been confusing for you to get read that letter, and we apologise if we took you off-guard. After all, your parents have been poisoning you against us for the past decade.

Still, we could not rest easy without making another attempt to contact you, but decided to wait for you to settle into your second year at Hogwarts. We have heard that you finished your first year with exemplary grades, and have not been surprised to hear that you have been appointed as Duelling Captain for your House. We expected nothing less from you, but are pleased to see that you are not bringing shame to our family name.

We have also heard that you have been tasked with organising the Fall Ball at Hogwarts, to represent the school to visitors from other countries, and are certain that you will continue to live up to our expectations. For this occasion, we have decided to entrust you with one of our family heirlooms. It has been in the Creek family for generations, and was traditionally given to the next generation as a wedding present. As your father never married, it seems only right that it should be yours now. We hope that you might wear it at your ball.

We also want to repeat our previous invitation to visit us. You would love Christmas in London.

In hope to meet you soon,

Your grandparents
Rosalie and Hayden Creek

Cold seemed to seep into her skin, creep into her bones, in a way it hadn't managed to before. They had been keeping tabs on her, and she wondered how they knew all this, but then, her father had worried about exactly that. He hadn't overestimated their grasp, had known how easily they could reach her if they wanted to.

The ball had passed at this point, and obviously, she hadn't worn the jewelry. Wouldn't have even if she had opened it in time. Ignoring it was easier, now and back then.

Some of the anger was there, same as last time. At the dismissive attitude they showed at her achievements, the way they completely skipped over any mentions of her mother. As your father never married - right, like they would have given her mother any wedding presents even if they had.

However, there was also uncertainty, doubt. It had been there last time, too, but much smaller, weaker. She'd buried it deep.

But here is the thing about burying seeds: They take root, and grow.

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