Barrow Fields the worst thing about prison was the dementors

Harley didn’t often stop to consider the other wolves that coexisted upon this earth with her. If they weren’t part of her family [though blood they may not be], or part of her social circle, they were all but forgotten — not that she entertained many situations where she would be meeting others, being the homebody that she was, but this moment provoked something different from her entirely. She wondered about him, cultivating an intense desire to know several things: his monkier, his whereabouts and, namely, why he had deigned to frighten her supper so! 

Then the man began his disenchanted advance, full up on his own reticence, and the cocoa-dusted girl began to doubt she would ever glean such an explanation. Every step he took forward was another step that the girl took backwards, almost as if it were a carefully choreographed dance and not something akin to hunter and hunted. Her molten gaze held his cool lilacs, daring him to come ever closer — but her reverse locomotion did not truly allow him to draw any nearer.  Harley’s rounded, velour ears pulled back, gathering and nestling against the nape of her skull. She was not frightened of him, if that’s what he was trying to get at here.