Barrow Fields the worst thing about prison was the dementors

The way the man stared had started to become a bother.

He didn’t even say that much, or attempt to engage her in conversation, instead brushing off her musings with a one-worded response. The man had agreed with her sentiments, of course, for hunting birds was certainly not a task any wolf was especially attuned to. Her fizzled hunt was not entirely her fault. Nature was working against her, after all, but the way he did not seem to place importance on her words was annoying. 

The hoyden shifted her weight from one stockinged foot to the other in restlessness. She had never the skill to hide her emotions, and wore them as if they were the onyx mask across her face; it sometimes was enough to cause trouble, and Harley hoped that’s not how this situation would deteriorate… and yet, how she wished it would! 

Her head and neck lowered to the ground and she peered up at him from the new perspective, trying to figure out the man and his taciturn motives. Her castory plume lashed behind her, all attentions converging upon the nameless, monochrome brute who stood soundly only [what could be] several stride away. Her demeanor became less abrasive — and much more curious.