My Grace

Chapter Two

-Diagon Alley and the first encounter-

Y/n's POV: 

Slurping my morning coffee in the comfortable silence was soon interrupted by Pansy, asking her mother when we'd leave today.

I had a little time to spare, which fortunately meant I could spend this time losing myself in a book. I felt very pleased with that knowing I would probably don't have enough time to keep my reading up in Hogwarts; at least not how I'd like to.

After finishing my coffee, I began my journey to the library, you will find it amusing when I let you in on this secret but I still get lost sometimes, even after all these years. There are just too many floors, and doors and everything somehow looks the same.

My silent prayers were answered because this time I didn't get lost.

Reaching the big wooden doors, I swiftly opened them and let myself into the place filled with beautiful stories, tragic heroes and gentle words of poetry.

My senses were immediately invaded by the relaxing smell of books and flowers; different flowers you could find scattered all over the room.

The time spent walking towards this room was spent debating what I feel like reading today.

As fast as the big question mark appeared it vanished again. It will always be poetry, no matter what day, or what mood I find myself in poetry will always be the solution to the enormous war that variety can be.

I love poetry because it stirs deep emotions, and makes me feel a sense of wonder, sadness, joy, or nostalgia. Resonating with my personal experiences and most of the time it brings me joy. Feeling the emotions as wholeheartedly as they were written somehow restores my faith in humanity.

As if my body naturally knew the way, I found myself in front of the huge bookshelf filled with various poetry books, including muggle authors.

I still get surprised seeing this.

I had never made a difference between muggle or wizard, whether pureblood or not, that never mattered to me. What matters is the person's heart, knowing damn well that neither my family nor my house allows such thinking I have always kept my views to myself. One of the somehow useful pieces of advice I had adapted because of my father.

Finding a book that fitted my mood I slowly made my way towards the sitting area. This corner of the room was filled with a brown leather couch and two matching armchairs on the other side of a big, rather bulky glass table.

After settling down comfortably I began reading, slowly but completely losing myself in the book, forgetting anything in this reality. Whenever I read, I forget the time which in this case meant that I was first aware of the time when the cracking sound of the opening door startled me.

Curiosity filled my being, resulting in a swift motion of turning my head towards the sound, only to see Mrs Parkinson leaning against the doorframe, a warm smile lingering on her face.

"There you are, I could have guessed. Are you coming? It's already noon.",

the words hadn't even fully left her mouth and my body was filled with uneasiness. There is almost no such thing I find more humiliating than making somebody wait for me. I hate being late.

Panicking I stumbled to my feet, abandoning my book on the table before frantically making my way to the door where the elder woman reached her arms out, holding onto my shoulders forcing me to a hold,

"Slow down, we've got all day.",

laughing wholeheartedly at me for making such a fool out of myself. I despise making people wait, but that's probably just my weird self again.