Barrow Fields the worst thing about prison was the dementors

Once she had decided what she was doing, Harley fell back into her finely-tuned sense of focus. Her ears remained pin back in concentration, but her mien was bright and attuned and happy because of it. Hers was more of a fighting prowess, honed through friendly melees and not-so-friendly skirmishes, but the hoyden found that many of the same principles applied here, in a far more gentler of situations. Her body was awakened, senses testing the situation in more ways than one. Her weight was placed forward, standing almost on her ink-dipped toes in receptivity and willingness to be led in his dance. There was a certain buoyancy that she felt in her mind, as well as her muscles,  that she found hard to find outside of physical pursuits.

Harley did not often don the veneer of sycophantry, ever willing to please and follow instruction, so she did not allow it to overtake her completely; not yet. She mirrored his little jig, stepping to her right and her left, then pulled forward and flourished the final movement with a zesty flick of her muzzle to the left, and like dancer’s ribbon caught in flight, she sent her tail sailing to the right.