Barrow Fields the worst thing about prison was the dementors

It was with the most extreme precision that Harley hunkered down low, belly flush with the earth, her ocre-tinged pelt obscuring herself from view. Right behind the coast’s treeline she dwelled, not make a moment nor a sound,  her attention entirely enrapture by a seagull, clomping its little flat feet across the sand-dirt, seemingly out of place in the ice and cold of the northern winter. Perhaps it too was a rebel, striking out on its own, away from home — not unlike the chocolate girl herself — but had the gull known what lay in wait, perhaps it would have stayed with its larger group. The scent of it had pulled Harley from a great distance; she was hungry and hadn’t a scant meal in several days. Now she sat still amongst the low-lying scrub and watch it with an inquisitive cant of her head, wondering the best way to achieve her goal when she could not take flight herself.

…and this was the extent of her knowledge about hunting birds. 

Suddenly, the gull spooked and burst forth and took a short, noisy flight! The hoyden was, for a moment, shocked but quickly her faculties snapped to sudden attention: eyes alert, ears alert, every part of her body down the very hairs that rippled across her shoulder crest down her spine, alert.  Her mind flashed red, as if saying react! react! react! and, with snapdragon jaws Harley sprang from her asylum and leapt towards the bird in an attempt to bring it down mid-flight, by grabbing a wing or a leg or something — and despite her spring-like attempts to salvage her meal, the gull took the air freely and left Harley glued to the earth’s surface, bow-legged and panting from her sudden exertions. 

Then it was all silent, but only for another moment; the only reaction she felt could appropriately encompass the true displeasure she felt was a sharp hiss and grumble that rattled across her tongue and danced upon her lips.