the poets say [open]

Startled, she gave the slightest of jumps that calm of her heart quickly picking up. It wasn’t that she, at the moment, felt threatened by the voice that sounded behind her simply that Christabel had been so focused on what she was doing. She hadn’t heard the stealth of his approach, nor the rhythm of his breathing he had sprung up upon her without so much as a clearing of his throat or a hello from afar to try and capture her attention. In most cases it wouldn’t have been necessary. Most students at Hogwarts upon a second year status weren’t all that jumpy. Things were different with her. Christy was like that coy deer that you saw in the forest, however lovely and composed that she may have look at a distance, when you approached she had was prone to becoming tense, as though she were poised to take flight at any moment- at least that was the case with strangers or people who intimidated her.

Lowering her brush from the canvas she had never been one to speak to people without giving them the proper attention so turned to face the boy. ”Thank you.” Though, at least for her, art was to express, meant to be an accomplishment that was self-satisfying not necessarily out to seek the approval or admiration of others, it was still nice to hear that what she had poured herself into was pleasing for others to look at as well. It was an added bit of triumphant that her fulfillment could take seed in. The only familiarity that she had with the boy before her was vague- nothing more than the simple recognition of a face that had been passed through the halls for years and yet no name had ever been associated with it. So was the case for such things. Hogwarts was a rather large place and Christy wasn’t exactly known for being a social butterfly, her wingspan was far too short for that.

”I started when I was seven.” There were certain hobbies that were approved for a lady and her mother had insisted that she try each and every one of them. Her musical skill, though singing was an option to a minuscule level as her voice was pleasant but nothing to write home about, was very limited- her teachers had never had the patience with her to teach her more than the basics with any instrument that she had tried. Everything else she had been mediocre with as far as skills went and if you couldn’t do something to the satisfaction of certain standards than you had no business wasting your time with it in her household. She was fair when it came to dancing, had learned all the steps to all the ballroom dances, she had a green thumb when it came to plants- her garden at home flourished during the summer months when she was home to tend to it and despite the manual labor of it and her mother finding it trivial, she could also knit elaborately. All in all, painting was probably the most fascinating thing about Christabel. ”I fell in love with it the moment the brush touched the canvas. Do you paint?” She hadn’t come across anyone else with the hobby yet, but then Christy didn’t go around asking or advertising.

It was a progressive talent. The longer that Christabel had been doing it the better she had become, though innate talent was also a factor rather than solely relying on practice. Her mother had insisted that if she indulge in such a hobby she was to be properly trained in the matter. Being introducing to a young progeny, a handsome man in his early twenties, he had been her very first crush. Not because he was handsome, though that did play a role, but because of the way that he explained art to her. It had been so beautiful and the tenderness in which he regarded the matter, to her seven year-old hopeless romantic, ears it had been the loveliest thing she had ever heard. It was something that she wanted to experience herself and in fact had been able to. She cherished the gift that he had given her by teaching her the way that he had, it wasn’t all about technique and control- though out of obligation she had been taught those things, but it was going with the flow and allowing whim to take the reins.

”I was never allowed to try finger painting.” She spoke up, albeit softly. Christy had been taught that when a male spoke to you it was prudent that you reply to their satisfaction, promptly and without rambling- to the point. ”My mother preferred that I stick realist painting, but I was educated in various genres.” Her mother claimed that anything other than realism was a waste of time. Filling your head with such nonsense was not something that she believed Christabel should do, but for the sake of being cultured in an area of pursuit she had allowed it, asking only that it be kept, after she had the chance to experience once or twice, in theory rather than practice. Her household was very strict. When it came to branching out of realism Christy never disobeyed preferring to be grateful for the freedom with it that she was granted.

She held a bated breath as the boy ventured in closer to get a better look. Though Christabel wasn’t opposed to being critiqued it always made her nervous. She painted for the joy of it, that much had always been clear to her, but something about having it judged on a deeper level than someone simply saying that it was hideous or a job well done put her on the edge of her seat, so to speak. Immediately she was searching his expression for any tell on what might have been going through his mind but her speculation could hardly pacify. When he didn’t say anything more on the matter Christy was left with the question of whether or not it was a good or bad sign but she let it go in favor of listening to what his interest in art was.

From what he was saying his sketches were versatile, which was rather remarkable. ”Landscapes and portraits, yes.” She made eye contact with him when his gaze was focused back and her, a feather-light smile dancing across her lips. ”I’ve tried sketching before, I’m not very good at it, but I am fond of the way it looks using charcoal.” Christabel was so swept up on the matter of art that she had neglected to do something rather important. ”Forgive me, I’ve forgotten my manners…” She had been told that the sweetest word in the human language was a man’s name heard spoken from a woman’s lips, which was why Christabel made it a point to learn people’s names whenever possible. ”I’m Christabel Murciette, and you are?”

It seemed redundant really that she couldn’t dip her hands straight into the paint when, while painting in the proper way that she did Christabel still ended up as a mess as she was now with spots of paint on her face. ”I was permitted one day to physically explore another genres.” She answered bowing her head slightly. Christy was well aware of how terribly dull her life seemed to those looking in from the outside. She was restricted and confined into that perfect mold that her parents wanted for her, but to people whose opinion differed there was nothing perfect about the way that Christabel was. She probably came across as nothing more than a drone, unoriginal and serving purposes that weren’t her own. It bothered her slightly that people were prone to forming that conclusion about her because she didn’t rebel. She was her own person just not as blatantly so as teenagers of her generation seemed to be.

Finally looking down at her hands Christabel was made away of the colors stained on them, speaking of mess. She must have looked a horror to him, hardly suitable behavior for the image that so was supposed to be projecting to others. He didn’t seem to have desire to get messy. It was a bit strange that someone such as herself didn’t have a problem and someone who, to the best of her knowledge was as laid back as he was, had an aversion to it. Weren’t boys supposed to generally like getting dirty, rough housing and getting grass stains on their clothing as they tackled one another to the ground in a playful round of king of the hill or some other game that was supposed to have them claiming alpha status amongst the group? She wasn’t really all that aware of her thoughts being stereotypical, it was just what she had been told and had read in books. Males were supposed to have particular traits about them to be masculine. It was 1995 after all and things weren’t as widely discussed as they would be in the future.

”That’s true.” She wouldn’t let any judgments that might have filtered through her mind. As much as any person may have liked to claim that they weren’t judgmental it was impossible to do so. Everyone had beliefs and opinions that had been shaped based on the influences in their lives that differed from other people’s- that meant when you came across something that you didn’t automatically agree with one hundred percent you questioned it, mused over it, tried to figure it out and how it might conflict or mesh with your own feelings toward a subject. It was natural most of the time, not mean spirited. The difference between judgments being good or bad depended on how it affected how you treated people because of their unique takes on the world.

Nicknames were typically reserved for people that you considered your friends, at least that was the case for her. There was a certain etiquette to these things and being informal so soon wasn’t one of them – at least it wouldn’t have been if not for being accommodating of a male, which was to overrule just about everything. Christabel’s life was very specific on the conduct of things and she followed through with those expectations. Most of her peers didn’t or wouldn’t understand that but Christabel didn’t do it for them. ”You may.” taking his hand she gave it a small, ginger shake. ’It’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Jake.” By that point she imagined that he had come to the realization that she was very well mannered. Part of her training was to always keep her company entertained though and it was statistically accurate that a person’s favorite subject was themselves. ”Would you draw me sometime? I’d love to see your work.”

It wasn’t something that you often heard in the day and age they lived. Rules and teenagers were no longer synonymous to one another. They may have run parallel to each other, adjacent and perhaps even in tangents but they were merely playthings now, something that was often bent, torn or broken but rarely taken seriously. By the surprise in his tone it was obvious that he was familiar with the common supposed teenager rite of passage that gave them the notion it was okay to rebel. It wasn’t a trait that she possessed, had been deleted from her DNA encoding. She looked down at the joke he made not letting it get to her. It was a common thing for Christabel to be teased about but she understood that it was, most of the time, only done in good spirits. She was optimistic that was the case with Jake.

Cleaning charcoal off of yourself could be very tedious work, but she supposed when it came to art she thought that it was well worth it. ’I would.” Christy spoke out, albeit softly. If her mother allowed her the freedom of expression that she truly craved then Christabel wouldn’t care how many hours scrubbing it took to cleanse her hands of any mess. When it came to charcoal specifically it was only a matter of knowing the best method to do so, once you knew that then it wasn’t such a hassle anymore. Her art teacher had told her of a couple ways that made things easier, all muggle solutions though so it was just another reason for Christabel to be shot down on the matter. A specific brand of dish soap called Ajax, preferable in lemon and though it may have seemed odd, any poison ivy cleaners. It was all relative to what you know.

His flippancy wasn’t taken negatively, chalked up to another youthful folly that her parents insisted she avoided. There was a saying in her household that no matter who you were with or the situation you must always conduct yourself as a Murciette. In other words there was to be a sense of superiority and grace in everything that you did. If Christabel were to trip up and fall her parents expected her to do so elegantly. She had never understood how that was possible and in her youth, when questioning how it might be, she had promptly been shut down with the reply that if she couldn’t figure it out on her own than she just best not fall in the first place. Often times, Christabel felt that the pedestal that she had been perched on was far too precariously high. If felt as though she were in a constant battle to keep her balance and teetered on all sides trying to seek out her center.

”Yes, please.” She interjected. Christabel wondered how the circumstances would change depending on which she was hoping to achieve. What could possibly need to be factored in depending on her answer? ”What sort of factors might you need to consider?” If he would be doing her the kindness of drawing her portrait then Christy wanted to be as accommodating as she possibly could. Feeling the wind bite at her cheeks again, it was a lovely sensation that coursed through her. Like been awoken inside.