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･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
"HEY, LYDIA. CAN I TALK TO YOU?"
The brunette girl glances up from the opened pages of the book she had been leafing through only moments ago, enthralled by whichever sort of whimsical adventure was trapped within its spine. Nestled comfortably at a table in the library as per usual, she had been content that her vacant morning liberating her from any classes would have acted as the restful hour it typically is. There weren't many other students lingering about the corridors of the school, and especially not in the library, so it had allowed for her to bask in the morning glow of the sun seeping in past the arched windows of the room and dusting its warmth across her face and onto her book, illuminating the words, and the specks of dust that float at a standstill in the air around her. She hadn't been expecting to be confronted by a person so early in the day, and was nearly about ready to toss a heavily displeased glower at the person for interrupting her engrossed attention captivated by the book she was reading.
There was no place she would have rather been in that given moment, with the languid waltz of steady snowfall cascading from the heavens beyond the castle's stone walls. Maybe it was for the best that she was interrupted. It was becoming a little bit concerning even to Lydia with how many self-help books she was reading lately, as if searching for a hidden secret meaning of the universe.
But upon hearing the voice of the newcomer, the girl had almost instantly felt the tension slacken around her. She could recognize it anywhere - the low mumble that was always somehow able to sound distinct and clear, despite sometimes being laced with a type of timidness. When she meets the beady gaze of the familiar mousy boy, a jolt of shocks starts in her heart but is tamed by a tender disposition. Aside from the fact that Peter Pettigrew is often overlooked for the hint of silent beauty that graces him (from his full pouty lips to his pointed nose and ears and his striking blue eyes) that could have anyone weak at the knees had they been paying attention to the quiet boy, Lydia knows at once why he is here in front of her.
She cannot hear any sort of malice or disgust in his voice, but rather a humbled tempted curiosity. He even smiles at her, a sort of tender and mellow smile that strikes her with a resemblance of a summery sun's heat. In his hand, he grips the recognizable envelope, muted innocent carnation pink in colour with her familiar script staring back at her in a dreamy swooping flourish that reads TO PETER PETTIGREW. He slips it onto the table beside her, letting it glare her in the face. She wonders fleetingly if she'll ever escape the horrid torture that are the occasional resurfacing of her letters. Maybe she should begin looking into that Time Turner plot after all.
