#epistolium

From the way Erin is sitting in the smallest possible corner of the sofa, knees pulled up to her chest and swathed in her grandmother's quilt, staring out the window at the rain and the street, even a casual observer could see that she's not happy.  Owain, who has made something of a hobby out of observing Erin and noting her moods for the better part of the last decade, has no problem at all noticing her current state.  The only problem he has is figuring out what to about it.

They are both coming to the realisation that they're not happy in London.  The city is vast, dirty, and unfriendly; they miss their support networks of villagers from home, they miss their families, they miss the rolling hills and the ocean.  At first, the excitement of being Real Adults was enough to buoy them through it, but every day that they spend here seems to weigh on them more and more.  Erin's had a cold for the last two weeks and shows no signs of improving, which she says is 'nothing, just stress' but Owain attributes to the city air.

For now, though, they can't do anything about it.  They've got a flat, jobs--a life here in London, and it's not so easy to up and drop everything they've accomplished to run back to Ireland or Wales.  Owain keeps hoping that one of these days they'll both wake up, happy and adjusted to city life. However, right now, Erin obviously isn't (and, truth be told, neither is Owain). 

Owain stands up, takes a scrap of parchment and his wand from off his desk, and goes over to sit next to Erin on the couch.  She turns to him at once, feeling the cushions shift, and the look she gives him is baleful and sad; eyes wide and lips between her teeth.  Owain musters up a smile, for her, and takes her hand, very gently.  He sets the scrap of parchment in her palm and then points his wand at it, muttering a spell under his breath.  The parchment turns green, smooths out, the center rises--it's transfigured into a tiny hill of four-leafed clovers, and just when the spell looks complete, a miniscule Irish flag rises from the top of the hill.

Erin's expression changes immediately.  She's grinning as she gently strokes the clovers with the index finger of her other hand.  It's a simple thing, but it reminds her of home, which was just what she needed. She's not staring out the window at the dirty, muddy street anymore, and she's smiling, so Owain considers it a job well done, and goes to stand.

Erin catches his wrist and shakes her head.  She carefully sets the hill down on the end table next to her, then takes up a red muggle ballpoint pen and her own wand.  "Close your eyes," she instructs, and Owain obeys immediately--just as he would for anything Erin might ask him.  She mutters a spell too, and then another, then takes Owain's hand and sets something in it.  He opens his eyes to a tiny red dragon, the spitting image of the one on the Welsh flag, strutting around his palm and roaring silently.

XAVIER SAMUEL