Simon Smith (Short)

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Simon Smith.

His name was Simon Smith. He was not liked in his world. His hair was like coal, and his skin was like dirt.

And on his back were the marks of many whips.

He twitched with every movement. With every movement he could feel the air tracing along the scars seared on his back. Each mark was a kiss of fiery desire from a molten knife. But they had healed now. Their scalds left a burning white trace. It was just ash now. Just ash.

"Are you... alright?"

Daphne. The girl sitting next to Simon. Curly red hair, like fire, but perpetual. Worried eyes, yet calm irises, like a lake.

She had introduced herself to him, and he had, in response, simply said, "I'm Simon. Simon Smith. Nice to meet you," but Simon couldn't help but tremble.

"Simon? You are alright?" Daphne asked again. 

"Me? Oh, yes, I'm fine." Simon gave a slight chuckle. "I've... just never seen a lady with red hair before." This, of course, was almost a lie, as he was trembling not because of Daphne, but because of the lack of soreness over his back, which was in itself a miracle to him.

"Really? Not once in your life have you seen a woman with red hair?" He shook his head no, afraid to verbally respond.

"Where are you from?" she asked, her voice like a twanged melody.

"...L-Lancashire," he said. "But... I had to work in the back of a library almost all the time. Never really got out much."

She laughed. "So you worked in a muggle shop?"

He nodded.

"Were your parents muggles, like mine?" she asked. "They were dentists," she added prematurely.

"I don't know who my parents were," Simon stated. "I don't know if I ever will, actually." He began trembling slightly less. The girl was putting him at ease.

"Who looked after you, then?" Daphne questioned.

"My... my grandfather. He was..." he gulped, fighting back the lie. "He was very strict." He immediately looked down, to his irreparably broken and deformed hand.

Daphne followed his gaze. "Your hand!" she said.

"I... I know... not very good to look at... sorry... sorry...sorry..." he continued to murmur under his breath, each 'sorry' becoming higher pitched, almost now a cry as he hyperventilated.

"No! No, it's alright. Really. I think I can help. Let me have a look at it." Daphne gently extended her right hand, outreached in a gesture of assistance. Simon timidly placed a malformed, bone-shattered object, which curved in on itself like a crippled bird's wing, grey and unused, with skeleton-like protrusions, which was once his left hand, outward, onto Daphne's warm palm.

She took out a mahogany wand, and whispered "Muniendam".

Immediately, Simon felt a warm pulse of what felt like physical generosity enshroud his crippled fingers. The skin began rippling. He jerked back, holding his hand at a distance. Bones began snapping back into place, with no considerable amount of pain, fingers began moving with a liveliness that had been lost for years, and soon, Simon was testing out the movement of his fingers and his wrist.

"That's... amazing." Simon said, with tears in his eyes.

"Oh, it's not that much-" Before Daphne could finish her sentence, Simon was hugging her, crying profusely, saying, "Thank you, thank you".

Daphne was embarrassed. For what Simon had failed to realize was that the two of them were smack dab in the middle of the banquet hall.

His echoed sobs attracted the attention of a large number of his classmates, who began laughing at him. "We've already got ourselves a squealer!" One cried from across the room.