GARGOYLES ARE HORRIBLE ART CRITICS,

Early Saturday morning and all the good little children were still tucked into their beds, safe and warm. The castle was near silent, most of the population lacking a strong enough motivation to be up and about without classes. The weak disk of the sun peeked almost shyly over the wooded horizon, struggling in vain against a blanket of mist and fog as it slithered and rolled with silently creeping fingers across expansive grounds. It wound its way around turret and goal post alike - bathing the Quidditch pitch in shadows and leaking into the courtyards. The air was crisp, chilled enough to be almost uncomfortable, not yet warmed by the new dawn. Perhaps the naughty children were still creeping back to their own dorms with indolent smiles and the dedicated flying in sweeping, spiraling loops above and through the mist, but it was no time or place for the average student. And yet, one very good little girl was not in bed where she rightly belonged.

Evangeline sat, shoulders hunched, head bent over a large soft leather bound book in the chill of the morning; the only immediate sound, the soft scruff of charcoal on paper. Insomnia and disturbing dreams had reared its ugly head once again - driving her from the warmth of her four poster bed out into the early morning cold. Wandering the school on silent feet, she'd ghosted down corridors, seeking the solitude and peace of the empty courtyard. Covert, as if she were on her way to a clandestine meeting, she'd peeked around corners and tiptoed around the offices of Professors despite the fact there was no rule that said she couldn't be out and about this early. When she reached the safety of her destination she'd sighed, a low huff of relief. She'd thrown her bag, an unsightly woven messenger bag of rainbow colored cloth, down at the foot of a bench and plopped down, legs crossed ankle over knee and let her mind wander into the endless possibilities of art. When the nights grew too long, when the touch of madness that shamed her light reared up like a beast in the dark, art was her refuge. Any troubles she had could be put on paper and then discarded, processed and disposed of. Flipping through her sketchbooks you would find the typical things (landscapes, animals, figure studies, etc) but there was also some fairly dark things, sensual vampires with their teeth in the throat of unsuspecting victims, dark angels with bleeding wings, grimy faced children with wide sad eyes. Any stray thought that made her uncomfortable, or happy for that matter, made its way to paper in charcoal or ink, colored or not.

To look at her, you'd never guess that her subjects tended toward this way. Fine boned and petite, Evangeline was pretty in a conventional sense that only truly shown through when she was still. On an average day her expressions were to big, bright smiles and wide eyes making her more endearing and less etheral. Here and now, she was a fey creature - washed in misty sunlight and wrapped in a cloak of serenity and mystery. Unruly mane of honey and caramel curls pulled up and away from her face in a high ponytail, she looked even more vulnerable than she normally did without a stitch of make-up on. Wide, doe eyes were hazy with lack of sleep and the force of inspiration - plush mouth swollen and pink from the tender ministrations of straight white teeth in an anxious nibble. Pale flesh was flush with the cold, a streak of charcoal marring the lines of her face - brushed, by an absent minded hand, along the top of her left cheek. Elegant hands, long fingered and delicate, were likewise dusted - fingertips especially; the dark a strong contrast to creamy white flesh and neon pink fingernails. She'd laid aside her normal wardrobe of prim and proper uniforms for the casual wear of weekends; long legs encased in dark wash denim, snug against slender curves and tucked into knee high coca colored leather boots. An oversized black sweater falling off one shoulder both highlighted and hid her figure, softening the impact of full bosom and showing off the slender line of a pretty throat and gently sloping shoulders - overly long sleeves pushed up to the elbow, violet colored scarf wrapped loosely, more for fashion than for any real effect.

Here, in the silence, with only stone gargoyles to watch her, she was safe. They kept watch with unseeing eyes, as the figure of a woman, wrapped in a gauzy dress, came to life on her page, born from restless energy and vivid dreams. They listened with deaf ears, as she hummed softly to herself, unable to judge or comment on the oddity that was Eva, fey like with a wild gleam in her eye. They couldn't even complain as she spoke to and for them, satisfying her own need for companionship with an overactive imagination and a child-like ability to find amusement in the strangest things. They stood as silent guardians and friends as she let the cold seep into her bones and chase away the heat and terror of nightmares best left in the dark.

Turning the sheaf of paper towards her silent 'friends' she smiled sweetly, the expression so very at odds with the odd shadow in her eyes, forest green today and bottomless. Her voice soft and purring, pitched low as not to carry beyond the four walls of the courtyard - accent touched with a little of Spain." What say you Jorge? To erotic? Perhaps I should make the dress more opaque, you say Flora? " Next thing you know, she'll be expecting a response.