More description practise

I wrote this yesterday. I’m not sure I’ll use it for this character’s story, but it was good practise.


It was a grey house. That was a relief, as it was also three stories high, featured a wraparound porch, and extensive grounds that included a graveyard. I would have loved it too much if it had been a nicer colour than grey.

The drive also helped. It had been in view for nearly twenty minutes, while Dad and Mum argued over which winding road to take. We must have taken at least half of them, although none of them had given back.

I rolled down my window and set my jumper between my chin and the car door. Trees had whipped past earlier, but being lost meant driving at a crawl. I could count the leaves of any tree situated near a turn. That got old very fast, and so I went back to focusing on the house that we were going to live in. As soon as we figured out how to reach it.

One tower stuck up from the house like an arched eyebrow, or a stately hunchback. I hoped it wasn’t just for storage, or worse–for decoration. Anyone who had ever read Anne of Windy Willows wanted to live in a tower room. I had read it five times.

Suddenly Dad stepped on the gas, and I felt a warm blush of hope creep into my cheeks. It waned a bit as I realised that the weather had gotten worse. Heavy air settled all about, moving against the car. Had we pulled over, I didn’t know if the wind would prove entirely manufactured, or strong enough to shake the car on its own.

We did not pull over, but it did start raining. Fat drops that beat even my biggest freckles for size bounced off of my nose and misted my hair into a frizz.

“Hermione, do stop hanging out the window. You look like a forlorn pup.”

I thought of offering to let my tongue loll out through an idiotic grin, but that would have been Giving Mother Sass, so I did not. Instead, I sat up straight and dug my finger into the little automatic button that operated the window. It whirred without so much as a cough. I found myself missing the jerks and loud ailments of previous cars.

Of course, this car was new, provided for by… someone. That happened sometimes, especially when Dad went on location. I didn’t know the details of his upcoming job well. He hadn’t told me, and I hadn’t yet been bored enough to ask. Acting was really just very expensive playing Pretend, in my opinion.

It was a lonely opinion, though. I would never tell Dad (his feelings would be terribly hurt) and kids my age thought it was like being a magician or something. The girls in the many schools I had attended thought my father was a dream. This was creepy. I had never been one to capitalise on my father’s fame. It was easier to just listen to the girls gush about his eyes and his voice, or whatever, when they didn’t know.

His last name was different from mine, as was my mother’s. I wasn’t allowed to pick my own name, and I had stopped asking when I was ten. So while they got to be Leif Sheridan and Veronica West, I was stuck with Hermione Siegmeyer. It was long, and until a few years ago, nobody in America knew how to pronounce most of it. I had made it through school as Freckles until Harry Potter started getting films.

It made me feel better to hear people mispronouncing Dad’s name as well. They called him “leaf.” That part was his actual real name. He’d only changed the Siegmeyer bit.


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