She was having the worst possible day. Not only that Darla had a meeting with her lawyer before starting her shift, but the fact that she had ended up as a piece of worthless gossip in the worst newspaper ever – not even Edith working there could fix its reputation, truly – the witch was angered beyond her own imagination and comprehension; her suing the Daily Prophet was proof of that. Imagine,
her, being called a cougar. No, correction, a
fiery cougar. If there was anything she was passionate about at this time, then it would be about doing even the impossible to get that paparazzo dismissed.
“That can of utter and complete piece of rubbish, ran by a flock of decadent hallucinogenic substances consumers.” Darla muttered under her breath, as she got up from her seat in the hospital’s tearoom, where she had tried to calm herself down, by doing some light paperwork while enjoying a cup of tea. Nonetheless, even after spending the last hour reading papers received from Dilys Derwent School for Healing, Darla had yet to relax. She picked up her clipboard, leaving it open on the page of her former school’s requirement; the healer was to select a new student to take under her wing, and personally mentor. It wasn’t unusual for her to receive this sort of request, for her research had been very successful and she was in high demand, nonetheless, not even being regarded with nothing but admiration by her former school couldn’t lighten up her mood.
At least she’d decided on a student;
@Valentine Pym’s papers had been the most appealing and, well, the fact that he was a former Gryffindor might have influenced her a bit. Just a tiny bit. But nobody could accuse her of favouritism since, in the end, who wouldn’t want a former Head Boy as their trainee? She started sketching her response to DDS, requesting the certain student. However, as she irately penned on her clipboard, it was just her luck to bump into another
gem – someone who clearly couldn’t give priority to a healer on a hallway, because, of course, healers did not deserve to be able to walk around writing when they had so little free time in the first place.
She had lost her balance, but thankfully the distressing individual had prevented her from falling. Darla would have liked to comment and thank them, despite wanting to wish them other things, such as getting an eye treatment for clearly their sight was not good for not giving her priority. She decided against it though, for Darla was aware that she wasn’t in the best state, emotionally speaking. A polite smile and a quick ‘thank you’ would do.
However, upon locking eyes with the person who’d bumped into her, Darla’s eyes widened from the shock, and the witch found herself further invaded by a waterfall of feelings. Arawn. Arawn Davies. He had his
hands on her. Nobody else than Arawn fucking Davies.
Darla couldn’t react. She merely froze, her eyes revealing her state of surprise, as her mind was invaded by countless thoughts, which further annoyed her; why was it that she couldn’t control her feelings about this certain man, even when they were now pure and sheer hatred? She could only recall how she had fancied him to an extent that she could never control herself; supposedly nothing new. Each time they had talked in the past, it had been as if her entire world would start burning, either for the best, or for the worst. Everything he’d ever said to her had remained imprinted in her so deeply that it affected her in unimaginable ways. Often times, she’d wished she had the self-confidence of others, and not care about him. Other times, Darla was aware she had that capacity, but it had been Arawn’s fault, for he had managed to fascinate her through each and every gesture of his, getting her to change her mood even over twenty times in a day. She’d liked him to an extent Darla herself would call impossible; right now though, he was touching her, and Darla did not feel the desire she’d once felt. At least not the same sort of longing.
She suddenly found herself ridiculous; he’d been
perfect to her. But, presently, the man in front of her was nothing similar to the Arawn she once knew. She was vividly aware of all his faults, of his awful personality, of how much he’d hurt her when leaving without telling her and then having the sheer nerve of writing from Romania saying he’d gotten a girlfriend which reminded him of
her.
Deòiridh Fionnghuala Boyd hated Arawn Llyr Davies more than she would ever dislike the flock of decadent hallucinogenic substances consumers who ran that debauched newspaper. And yet, ironically, she was put face to face with the man who was entire chapters of her life. But he had met and fallen in love with a witch that reminded him of her. After setting the letter she received from him on fire, Darla had sworn to never show her nice side to this man ever again; he was vermin, worse than the lowest of men.
Sorry, Valentine. Darla mentally apologised to her future student, for she would damage his papers with her following gesture. She tightly gripped the clipboard and hit Arawn with it. First in the left side of his torso, then his right shoulder, and the final touch – throwing the clipboard in his face, hoping it would actually leave a scar. He owed her that, a physical scar, for all the hell he’d put her through. “Do. Not. Touch. Me.” The former Gryffindor said in loud, harsh whispers, almost threateningly. “Jobby.” Her Scottish accent surfaced, further revealing her wrath. “You’re a wallaper, a scunner, Arawn Davies.”
Darla then turned on her heel, and further proceeded to walk towards her office, with a snap of her fingers summoning back her clipboard.
