Mustached Motivation PV With Atticus Wade Closed

Hexcode= #946F6F

"Pardon me," Atticus clearly recalled saying to the figure standing alone amidst the corridor. That had been almost near an hour ago, at about the same time he had intended to depart the castle for the evening. Today had been a long day, naturally, but it was clearer now that fate had other plans in store for him and that it was going to be just a little while longer. Serendipity indeedy.

Teaching transfiguration had come with a new set of responsibilities Atticus was unused to, and while Wade was only just getting into the pattern of learning the specific habits he needed to be successful in his new career, there were certainly some old habits which he still needed to rid himself of. After travelling all the way home only to be confronted by his own front door, forgetting his house keys was on the list of bad habits to kill.

"Pardon me," Atticus said again to Marshal for the second time today, this time with an eyebrow raised and his lips furling as his consternation grew. Atticus would grip the knob of the doorway leading into his classroom giving it a quiet twist before briefly turning his head back over his shoulder to look at the boy again with an expression that whispered concern and demanded respect. "Stay right here and I'll be right back." It was his singular chance to run off. A chance he himself would've taken when he were younger.

Only a moment or two would pass between his quiet entrance to the classroom and his eager escape from it. He had grabbed the key from its not-so-cleverly-concealed spot within his desk. That'd be the last time he'd leave the bit of metal he needed behind, and the first time he remembered to lock the desk all week. Luckily, nobody had taken advantage of his forgetfulness and the senior moment was swept beneath the already-lumpy-rug of his aging memory.

Returning as gracefully as he had been when he entered the classroom, the locking mechanism of the door wouldn't even make a sound as he maintained his grip on the door knob. Releasing the door in quiet, the silence of the corridor was a comfortable aura to him who so highly valued his peace and quiet. Though with Marshal's presence, the silence would not last as long as he desired. Atticus with his eye trained on the pupil, would then give the boy's melancholy features a thorough investigation before any memory of a name came to the forefront of his mind.

"Marshal Mozor ain't ya?" He said, thinking himself slick for remembering. "Kid," Atticus said, too uncomfortable to ask after Marshal's feelings but dutifully concerned about his well being. "It's awfully close to your curfew. Unless you need my help finding your way back to the common room, I suppose you better get a move on son."

Regardless of the boy's answer, Atticus would place his hand on the boy's shoulder, an effort to shake him from his awkward moment of inward reflection. At first, Atticus hoped the boy didn't take it as a sign that he had wanted anything awfully sentimental to be expressed, but then again it did look like he had a lot on his mind. Instead of pressuring him to hustle, Atticus put himself in the kids shoes. Clearly, nobody was listening. "I'll bite," Atticus said, his voice growing a touch more sincere and gentle. "Something on your mind kid?"

Mentions: @Marshal Mozor

Graphic by Leonard Oaksworth

@Atticus Wade

The more polite rendition of 'move it, kid' failed to permeate the murky veil enshrouding Marshal's thoughts, leaving him entirely unaware of the professor's presence. Alone in his own mind, the young boy had isolated himself from the rest of the world, creating a universe wherein he could bear the pain without encroaching upon anyone else. It simply wasn't in his nature to saddle others with his burdens; if he was going to drown, he wouldn't drag them down with him.
Even the vaguely threatening promise that the teacher would return following his excursion into the classroom failed to jolt him from the trance, those words echoing, like hollow whispers, down the desolate corridor before fading into the gloom.
Had he noticed the fact that he was no longer alone, he likely would have accepted the subtly implied suggestion to vacate the area while he still had a chance. The idea of allowing someone to see him in such a state was distasteful, at best. He had a reputation of unflinching humor and enthusiasm to uphold; it wouldn't do to allow those who counted on him for such things to see him lurking about the dark hallways, in a state of unresponsive umbrage. After all, everyone needs a light to chase away the shadows, a candle to guide them through the oppressive night; and Marshal took great pride in providing a lighthearted attitude for others to focus on, if only to distract themselves from the darker realities of life.
And so, to maintain the idea of an immovable column of hope, he would suffer in solitude.

It was what his father had done for he and his mother when their beloved daughter and sister had passed from this life.
Though Marshal knew the man's heart had been ripped from his chest, he'd never shown it; never allowed the mask of bravery and strength to waver, never stopped telling stupid jokes and assuring his family that everything was going to be okay, until one day, they began to believe it again.
Small, intimate moments were the only indication the boy ever received that his father was hurting the same way they were - when a minute noise would lead him to an abandoned bedroom, where he would find the man at the foot of his daughter's bed, eyes glistening with tears as they gazed upon her favorite stuffed cat. Or when his voice would catch unexpectedly on her name, interrupting his words and stilling his jovial mood, if only for one telling second.
Truthfully, it was those quiet moments of weakness that showed Marshal how strong his father truly was, and that was why he refused to display how broken he felt now. If he could help just one person the way his father had helped him through the hardest time of his life, then it would be enough. He had to be strong too.

Only the direct mention of his name pulled the first-year from his stupor, hazel eyes blinking rapidly as he realized that the torch he'd been staring at had been eclipsed by a dark figure - a figure he couldn't make out for nearly a full minute.
Rubbing the lingering glare of fire-light from his vision with both hands, he returned a squinting glare into the face of someone much taller than he, and with notably more impressive facial hair.
"Professor Wade!" he exclaimed in a breathy heave, as though he'd been holding the air in his lungs for some time.
Instantly distinguishable by the prestigious mustache which deigned to sit upon his face, Professor Wade would do well to shave if he ever intended to blend in with the crowd. That, and remove the hat so proudly flaunted atop his head. Truly, the thing would act as an excellent umbrella, were the good professor to venture out into the sun at any point. And not only for him, either.
Marshal briefly found himself wondering just how close one would have to stand to the man in order to reap his hat's shielding benefits against the punishing heat of the celestial orb in the sky.

Barring all considerations of attire and personal grooming - which was rather difficult in this individual's case - the young Gryffindor didn't know much about the Transfiguration Professor, save for the fact that he seemed nice enough in class, though his lectures fell short of retaining the boy's concentration. Then again, he viewed every teacher through the biased lenses of boredom. As far as he was concerned, all of them existed only to suck as much fun from his life as they possibly could, like vampires who died of knowledge overdoses in their past existence.

The warning concerning a broken curfew shook him entirely from his muddled thoughts, causing him to glance about in a slight panic.
"I'm sorry, professor," he stumbled apologetically. "I didn't realize what time it was. I don't think I need help getting back. If I do get found in the halls after curfew, just know that I probably got lost on accident. I've been back there plenty of times, but it still happens on occasion."
He moved to walk away, taking a step toward where he thought his dorm to be - though, if Atticus were paying attention, he would notice that his student was heading in the perfectly wrong direction - but was stopped by a calloused hand on his shoulder.
Turning back, he allowed his gaze to meet the downturned eyes of his professor, seeing genuine compassion behind them - reluctant though it may be.
Doing his utmost to ignore the correlation between the words 'I'll bite' and his earlier thought about teachers being fun-sucking vampires, he then dropped his head and replied quietly, "Nothing important, really. Just an argument I had with a friend."
Marshal detested lying, and as a result, was terrible at it. The fallacy behind his response would be plain for the older man to see.

Whether challenged on the integrity of his words or not, the blonde boy would finally shove his hands into the pockets of his sweat pants before glancing down the dimly lit hallway, dejection coloring every action. He had to get this off his chest somehow. If he didn't release it now, he wasn't sure what it would turn into.
Besides, this was a professor. There was no need to be strong for him. It was doubtful that a goofy twelve-year-old was going to change his outlook on life that easily.
"All right, that's not true. It's about what happened to the Hogwarts Express. I..." he hesitated, unsure of how much he wanted to say. "Saw what happened. A lot of people were hurt badly. It's just hard to get it out of my head."

Hexcode= #946F6F

Something was clearly deeply troubling the boy, that much he was certain of. When Marshal had said it was "just an argument with his friend" however, that truth didn't sit well with Atticus. No, he would watch as the kid then attempted to shuffle off after such a translucent lie. One did not retire from hunting fugitives only to be duped by a frightened teenager afraid of confronting his own repressed feelings. Well, at least Atticus hoped this was the case. He'd spent an awful lot of his life uncovering the lies of others, but this was the first time he found himself interrogating a child. To express this doubt, Atticus would be lift the corner of an eyebrow in challenging skepticism. He would provide a polite, "come again?" to encourage the flow of truth once more.

Soon enough, his patience had paid off and out came the real, underlying, problem. As the boy spoke, Atticus would usher him in the right direction. They would head towards the Gryffindor common room while Atticus was ignoring the fact both were out past curfew thus breaking the rules. A minor thing to overlook if only so the boy's own conscious could process the clearly traumatic incident occurring on the train known to him as The Hogwarts Express. After patiently listening to the entire confession, Atticus would lift his hand from the boy's shoulder and hand him a wrapped piece of caramel from Honeydukes. "Go on, put that under your tongue and give it a rest while I speak at you."

Significantly his elder, the professor would eye Marshal as though he were uncertain on what to speak about at first, but the boy clearly needed the assurance that everything would be alright. Well that and to know his suffering had a purpose. "Not all things in life are easy Marshal," he would start, cutting the boy off if he hadn't yet accepted the piece of candy or speaking frankly if he had. "Sometimes life likes to test somebody. It'll present a challenge just to see if they can overcome it." He smirked, shortly revealing the pearly whites behind his whiskers. The smile would fade just as quickly as it came. "It's important during these moments to be brave, and face your fears. It'll make you stronger for having passed it."

"Being brave," he would continue on. "Or strong as some people like to put it, can get you far in life. And there are a great many obstacles you can overcome just by being tough enough to face them head on." He would look to the boy's face to see if he followed along, or to judge if he had lost the meaning of his speech. "Despite the appearance of being brave however, it is very natural to be frightened to your core when something awful happens to you. I've seen it a dozen times before. Some people freeze up and can't move, other people will fall to pieces and cry until they can't anymore." He would hang his head, lowering his voice out of respect for those fallen while his hat covered his eyes. "Others will hesitate to act and fail to make it out of the predicament alive." Hopefully the message was clear. That life could be bitter but being young meant having dreams and enjoying life while it lasted.

"You don't strike me as any type of coward Mr. Mozor." He said matter-of-factly, meeting the boy's eyes with his own. If Marshal was the kind who possessed maturing insight, then he might see that the fire of Atticus's youth was still boldly lit behind his aging eyes. "It took a lot of courage to admit to me that you were lying and it took a lot more than courage to admit how you were feeling. It took maturity." He would give the boy a pat in between the shoulders. The tough, stinging kind of thump that encouraged someone to either laugh their nerves away or cringe meekly. "I don't know much about this incident of yours kid, but if it helps you sleep better tonight, I'm all ears." He hadn't wanted to get attached, it was much easier to think of this job as a job, but then here Marshal was. Needing an adult.

@Marshal Mozor