There was one thing that Grace knew she could count on and that was Jackson’s overwhelming positivity that was there for her when her optimism was non-existent and lacking where otherwise it shouldn’t been effortless and strong. Yet, Grace couldn’t find it. The warmth of the fire did nothing to coax out of her some happy thoughts and the fullness of her stomach had turned, making her feel ever so slightly nauseous. It wasn’t something that she could help, either. It wasn’t something she could control. It was a fact of life, she supposed, wryly. That didn’t mean she had to accept it though, did it? Rebellion was far too Gryffindor, she felt.
Raising a smile for Jackson, Grace sat forward in her chair a little. They’d claimed the spot by the fire when they were in their second or third year, Grace couldn’t really remember, and since then, the younger years had learnt that it was the spot where Grace and Jackson sat. Charlie and Nathan also had their own seats but were, blessedly, absent for the moment. Grace didn’t know if she could take Charlie’s arrogance - the assurance that everything would be fine and that Grace was just overreacting. Nathan’s cowed, anguished look would also do nothing for Grace’s countenance. Perhaps in the morning she could deal with both but now? No way.
“It’s fantastic!” Grace enthused; and she meant it, too. Hogwarts was more a home to her than her real home ever would be. It just wasn’t the same without her father and with the entrance of her step-father. Nothing would ever quite be the same again there. But even with the shuffle of the cast at Hogwarts, Grace couldn’t help but feel at home. Perhaps, then, the Headmaster when she entered her seventh year, would let her stay on after graduation and allow her to learn the teaching trade or, really, just be a help to the Professors. Grace was sure that she’d even clean out the greenhouses if it meant she could stay.
Nothing had changed ‘on the outside’; it was still nigh impossible for werewolves to get jobs. The idea of turning professional at Quidditch was farfetched and, well, impossible - but she could yet dream.
“Did you try any of the trifle?” She asked gently, her hand falling to her stomach which had swollen with the amount of food she’d ingested - substituting, she was sure, the lack of food she’d consumed during the summer. “I have a sweet tooth but for goodness sake... it’s like one of the House Elves slipped putting the sugar in and the whole bag went in instead of the required amount. There was plenty of sherry in there, too. Yum, yum.”
She smiled and let her hand fall back to the arm of her chair. Her gaze fell to the fire after a moment, relishing the way it heated her cheeks and made her hair look less abnormal against her pallor. It often felt as though her hair was actually made of fire. It was coarse and unpredictable yet soft and inviting at the same time. She didn’t particularly enjoy being her shade of flame ginger and the Slytherins never, ever let her forget about it.
“Do you think I should die my hair, Jack?” She asked offhandedly, while the thought was upon her. “Like...like blonde or brown or something? What do you think?”