Third floor common room, Friday afternoon

[thishouseishaunted]

Mae was determined never to do anything properly in Seivarden's class -- and was so far doing very well at that -- but the assignment today, to write poetry about someone they cared about, was actually something that got her thinking.

Something that got her interested.

So after class, she grabbed her journal and a blanket from her room and went to go curl up on a common room couch and try to write a real poem.

"This house is haunted,"
you said.
And you died.
You were right.

You said
"They feared death."
You were right.
I'm afraid all the time.

"They feared death,
So they ate the young."
I'm afraid all the time
of what's eating me.

So they eat the young.
And you died.
What's eating me?
. . .
"This house is haunted."

It was probably terrible. She was sure it was terrible. It didn't even rhyme.

She stared at the page for several long moments, idly doodling her grandfather's face next to her poem.

She wished it would snow.

[tiny emo post is open! Mae's poem is an extremely rough pantoum, aka baby-creative-writing-major!Bella's favorite poetic form. . . .]