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"we don't even ask for happiness, just a little less pain."
[charles bukowski]
xxx
A few moments later, as Madame Pomfrey left the room, Mia looked over to him.
Eyes curious, head turned in his direction, she eyed his messy hair the colour of a raven's wing poking in all kinds of directions, ruffled from the wind and his hand that would constantly brush the strands from his face.
His skin was clear, she noticed; uncommon for their age; lacking freckles unlike herself—though maybe he had those faint ones around his nose; the light brown ones that you can see only if you're really close to the person.
There was a mark of dirt on his cheek, too, like a scrape. Maybe he'd fallen from his broom? Or maybe just touched his skin without noticing some dirt taking refuge on his fingertips?
His eyes were closed, peaceful, like it was really midnight and he was fast asleep; chest slowly rising and falling at a steady pace, the same pace as hers, though her concentration changed to a noticeable scar etched onto his forehead, peeking out from beneath his hair where a large bruise was taking form.
