#jansirac

the dorm is quiet — unnervingly so. " i'm heading out, " priscilla mutters, shrugging her robes on over her pink, silk pyjamas and taking the steps two at a time. nobody stirs, nobody says a word, but the silence is oppressive in its own right. she has to get out — has to clear her head, even if just for an hour or two. the cold is good for that, and so is the night. if she stays put much longer, she's worried she's going to get herself in trouble.

traitor. liar. back-stabbing bitch.

it's getting harder every day. abi is dead. old friends look at her with new-found contempt, and her only solace is in secret smiles and fleeting conversations. as she emerges into the moonlight and takes her first breath of fresh air, she feels some of the tension lift.

then, a hand clamps over her mouth.

for a split second it's like she's falling from some great height — nerves alight from adrenaline and blind panic as she and her assailant move out of the open, into the trees. she struggles free and whirls to face him, the tip of her wand pressed firm against the line of his jaw. then, she sees who it is and exhales a winded breath — truly, one of a select few spectacular morons who'd see fit to accost her in the dead of night. she's relieved, obviously, but that relief is quickly overcast by outrage.