It was that awkward, terrible time in between breakfast and lunch. The train arrived from King's Cross yesterday, so Isla naturally had to get fed by the school counselor. Belly and pockets full of delicious treats, she was standing to the side of the hallway, annoying Alistair. Isla had finally surpassed him in height, and was ridiculously proud that she was bigger than her big brother.

"I can't wait for the whole family to know!" She said, playfully elbowing him as he glared up at her.

"Isla, they just saw us. They know." His bitterness over the entire situation was not well masked. His square jaw looked even more square and boxy than usual.

"They know, but do they really know? Did it sink in, Alistair?" The witch retorted, grinning from ear to ear. "It's okay, I take after dad's side." Actually, she looked very much like the Vaillancourt side of the family. She and the potions professor could easily be mistaken as sisters. Spectres, however, were generally tall and light haired. Poor Alistair was neither.

Isla's red brows furrowed together in sudden concern. She had been joking, of course... But what if it hadn't actually sunken in? What if the Spectres didn't really appreciate her height. "Should I write Balfour to ask if he remembers how tall I am?"

Alistair looked around desperate for a way out of this conversation. Isla followed his gaze, trying to figure out what he was looking for when she saw Cara. Suddenly, she wished she wasn't so tall anymore. Last night during dinner, she had been trying to sneak a peek of the Gryffindor table to get a look at her. While Isla thought she was subtle and sneaky, she really was not.

"Hello," Cara greeted the Spectres as she bustled up, satchel dangling from her right shoulder, all kitted out and looking adorable in a burgundy cardigan and black pleated skirt, complete with thigh-high stockings. In fact, it almost looked like Cara had put on just a touch more makeup—and perhaps even taken a measured attempt to tame her thick, thick hair—for some reason. What's more, a lovely golden bow had been attached neatly to the right side of her head... had she dressed up for something? Or somebody?

Without further ado, she produced Miranda Goshawk's Standard Book of Spells, Grade 3, 'til now transported in the aforementioned satchel. It seemed she had held on to it throughout the Easter holiday. She offered Isla the book, forcing a sweet smile despite the tension she felt in her chest, caused by thoughts and feelings she had not managed to come to terms with yet.

"My—my name's Cara, by the way. Cara Siger. I don't think we exchanged names when we—you know, when—in the library."

Despite the occasional stutter-step and flubbed word, Cara seemed more or less confident. She was definitely less comfortable than she had been during their encounter in the library before the holidays, though, and she hoped desperately that Isla didn't noticed.

"I know your name, now—read it in the book. Bit of a mouthful, isn't it? I mean—not to say—oh, never mind."

Cara glanced up and down the hallway, mostly abandoned, and then looked up at Isla. She did not seem at all interested in Alistair, totally focused on the younger, taller girl in front of her.

"You keep looking at me. At dinner, I mean. And... when we're on the lawn at the same time. Or passing in the hallway."

She said this matter-of-factly, brooking no denial. Her tone was soft, though, and a tad curious; not accusatory or upset; and as she spoke, Cara clasped her hands behind her back, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet anxiously.

Oh no.

Oh no no no no no no!

Cara had noticed Isla looking at her. Immediately, she tried to focus back on tormenting her older brother. It didn't work. Cara was approaching them. It would be incredibly awkward and weird-- not to mention rude-- if she pretended like the fifth year wasn't there. Alistair gave her a thankful look, glad for the distraction away from his height. His classmates didn't usually betray him, and besides-- she was friends with Ayla.

"What are you doing?" Alistair asked, jostling his sister just a bit as she tried to hide behind him. It hadn't worked, and Cara was focused on talking to Isla.

The witch began to fiddle with her braid awkwardly, struggling between either making too much eye contact with Cara and not enough. She accepted the book and tucked it under her arm, mumbling out a quiet 'thanks.'

How was she going to respond to this observation of her staring? Isla gave Alistair a nervous look before deciding to go into full denial mode. "I haven't been looking! Not really. I mean, I drew you once and--"

Alistair looked Cara up and down, interrupting in a poor attempt to save his sister from her foot-in-mouth disease. He wasn't sure what Isla had gotten herself into, but it was his duty as her brother to keep her from being a total laughingstock to the older years. "Are you going to a wedding? Or a funeral?" He shrugged, "Or a date?" She had been tutoring with Fred lately. "Is that what you really mean when our brother says he's studying with you?"

Cara's brow knit together as Isla spoke, listening to her increasingly thin excuse. Was she really going to deny how aggressively she'd been staring, of late? It wasn't like Cara had been upset about it... in fact, she—

"Are you going to a wedding? Or a funeral? Or a date? Is that what you really mean when our brother says he's studying with you?"

"No," Cara replied indignantly. "Fred's helping me with Herbology and Potions because I'm rubbish at both—and anyway, if we were dating, I'd be rather peeved at him, considering he can never seem to make it anywhere on time."

Her tone was scathing, likely a concerted effort to shrivel Alistair up where he stood. Next, Cara turned to stare very pointedly at Isla. She spoke as if she was still addressing the taller girl's brother, though, refusing to break eye contact with Isla:

"I actually fancy somebody else, Ali, sweetie. I thought maybe they fancied me, too, on account of how they keep sneaking glances at me when I'm trying to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner, or when I'm keepin' to myself in the hallway—or maybe because they sketched a very beautiful picture of me that I have taped to the wall above my bed at home."

She spoke in a rush, as if she had somewhere to be, but sounded very firm—on the edge of hysterical, almost. Cara raised her hands in a what gives? sort of motion.

"Is there anybody around here that fits that description and might have a thing for me, do you think?"

Her cheeks and ears burned.

How dare Cara accuse her of staring, even if it was true? And in front of her brother. That made it even worse. Isla didn't 'have a thing' for Cara. No. She hadn't even had a crush on anyone yet. They barely knew each other. Besides, she was going to grow up one day and get married and have redhaired little Scottish babies. And that usually meant you married a boy.

Alistair stared at Cara throughout her tirade, absolutely bewildered.  "Uh." This was crazy. Too crazy. Girls were crazy. "Why are you yelling at me?" Did she normally yell at him? He'd have to ask Fred about his new 'girlfriend's' unstable temper. Uncomfortable, he barked out a laugh like a socially inept seal.

Isla ignored her brother. "I don't fancy you!" She exclaimed, pointedly looking away from the other witch. "I don't know you, how can I fancy you?"

Cara glared at Isla with an intensity that she could likely feel even while averting her gaze.

"You don't have to know somebody to fancy them, that isn't how it works, and—"

She turned her head, flaming dagger-eyes boring into Alistair's soul. They had never had a row before, getting along as well as two students in the same year generally did—and besides that, Cara usually got along with everybody—but at this point, Alistair would have done well to fear for his life.

"I'M NOT YELLING AT YOU," she yelled at Alistair, and—without warning, but with a speed that suggested she was probably topping her class in Defense Against the Dark Arts—Cara produced her wand, waving it at Alistair and saying:

"Ebublio!"

With a wet squelch, Alistair found himself encased in a gigantic man-sized bubble, tinted pink 'round the edges. Sound, both into and out of the bubble, was muted, but discernible, and try as he might, he would find himself unable to pierce the bubble and liberate himself.

That was the least of his problems, though: mere moments after she had cast the jinx, Alistair began to rise with his bubble slowly towards the ceiling, many, many feet above, settling somewhere in the rafters.

"If I haven't been clear, I fancy you," Cara said, her fiery gaze now back upon Isla. "And if you don't fancy me, then you've been unclear! So pluck up some courage and come talk to me, or quit sending mixed signals!"

Cara stormed off in a huff.