Barrow Fields the worst thing about prison was the dementors

He did not react outwardly, save for the minute and muted approval that washed over his silvered visage. There was something about his detachment, the way he did not engage her but seemed to appreciate her nonetheless, that reminded Harley of Raiden and appealed to her own restless and bellicose nature very much. Very rarely did she find this sort of outlet, one that did not result in blood and bruised egos, so this was a relished departure from the norm and Harley was thankful for the stalwart audience which allowed her to explore such things.

“Can’t do nothing to bring back your love…” she whispered to herself in a hushed and sing-song tone, bringing to voice a singular lyric from a song she learned from the congress of her peers, hoping to glean further muse from any-and-all sources. The hoyden grit her teeth to prevent the rest of the ditty from spilling out and channeled such expression into her limbs and paws. For just a moment, she established a sullen demeanor, with ears pressed back and golden eyes drawing wide — she crouched close to the ground, shifted her bodyweight into her firm hindquarters, and sprang as high into the air as she did when he had so unceremoniously stumbled upon her failed hunt — only, there was no avian prey to inspire her actions this time, just the simple need for expression and movement. She only hoped she did not tumble into him upon her descent!