What Breeds Disdain PV Leonard Reopened

Interacting With: @Levi Drakos | Hex: #143314

Leonard had been seeking an escape from the terrors of existence as long as he could remember. In the muggle world, in the simpler times, it had meant putting up with the smallest of talks about the most boring of topics for hours and eventually slipping away,. There had been no impending threat of supernatural forces, no cryptic riddles of ancient language to decipher, no phantom being with suspicious intentions. There were only stuffy, wrinkled men wishing to seal a business deal and confused old ladies who needed a map permanently sewn onto their glasses. How he wished to use the fabled powers of teleportation, whisking himself away from the twisted land of preteens and nightmares back to those days, where the biggest menace was forgetting to take the kettle off the pot and overheating the tea.

Alas, the ability to wave a wand or shout nonsense and suddenly be transported back to Oaksworth Bakery was nowhere near being taught in the curriculum, and so his search for solace began once more.

Unexpectedly for such a gigantic place that had housed literal giants at one point or another, there were few true locations that passed the test. Admittedly, his standards were tall enough to house several giants, but really, all he'd wanted was quiet. A place where he'd be free from the constant buzz of chatter and rumors, no. Over a few grueling months of searching every corner that wasn't inhabited by an extremely judgmental portrait or a skull-tossing ghoul, the snake had narrowed the options down to the library and the bathrooms on a good day. After a few much less grueling seconds, he crossed out the latter.

There was never complete silence, of course there wasn't. There would always be another peer from two tables over who flipped their pages with a tad too much noise, a rowdy group in another side of the room that was constantly being shushed for their mischief making, a heavy block of leather-pound pages proving Wingardium Leviosa wasn't a foolproof against gravity every other hour. But, well, it was close enough.

That time around, distraction had come in the form of a boy sitting on the other side of the Slytherin's table, using his feet as a faulty metronome and an instrument of disturbance. Leonard used his discarded pile of parchment and a copy of a frog-related alchemist's biography to create a soundproof, albeit imaginary, wall between them. However much his partner in seating was struggling (very much, he thought, inferring from the near constant earthquake of brewing stress shaking their worksurface), it was no concern of his. He'd had days like that, certainly, but that particular day was not included in the calendar of disastrous endeavors in studying. That day, he was the human embodiment of a not-disaster in the studying department, the rest of the world fading away to black and leaving only the pale yellow of pages and serif text to be memorized, copied, and memorized once more.

Then came the clinking of glass upon wood. Then came the gleaming river of ink.

Leonard stared at the other boy, anger rising steadily as a flames did with a fan. Though the borrowed publication of the grand toad alchemist was spared from an inky fate, more than a slight portion of his notes had been tainted beyond repair. It was grounds solid enough, in his also tainted-beyond-repair view, to unleash whatever snippet of verbal underworld his brain could prepare at the perpetrator of such a crime. During other circumstances, perhaps he would do without a stream of insults matching the stream of black running across the table, but the boy had incurred wrath beyond what even the most corrupt of lawyers could comprehend. Not the pale skin of clear embarrassment, not the disheveled dark hair of familiar exhaustion, and certainly not the terribly worded, but sincere, apology could help the other's case.

"The flood of ink's bad enough, but I'd say your language in the library is even worse."

He said the words in a manner befitting his house, a quick hiss that anyone passing would hear only as an annoyed mutter. Annoyed was something of an understatement, however, as the glare accentuated by a slammed book proved. A small part of Leonard's mind knew his louder actions were arguably worse than a swear cut off in attempt of an apology, but reason was clouded by irritation and sleep deprivation.

@Leonard Oaksworth

It was the flush of heat to his cheeks, tinted red from sinful, cursing blood. No, it was the haunted tint to his knuckles, fresh from the mahogany casket, raw from friction. No, it was the bouncing leg, heel clicking fast against the floor, an imagined million steps from his haven, his rest, his corner table. Levi’s head shook hard, shoo the pain away, let the nervous quivers halt, let that revolting, wicked blood spread evenly through his body, a failure’s blood for a failed man. Eyes trailing up, something sharp prodded at the boy’s spine as he watched the road stretch to the very end of the horizon, distant grey clouds parting like the Red Sea for purple-tinted lightning to strike, an eardrum-splitting song of thunder; something had come to take him. The ground split open, and he fell into the blackest river, a river of ink.

He could handle disappointment. A laugh could be born of the tangling emotions, an outburst, sure, but positive, enlightening, charismatic. Most importantly: redeemable; was being overzealous not better than carrying a hurricane on your shoulders? Did it not leave less reminders, from black to purple? Being unsuccessful wasn’t ideal, but it was such for everyone, disheartening, discouraging, distressing, dismal, deadly. There was such thing as grace, standing en pointe upon the last shred of unscathed earth, though when the world quaked again and the ground danced beneath you, there was little more to do than fall victim, dance with it, and twirl your way down the abyss, to be doused in the thick liquid. And do so, from the very beginning, with your leg pulled over your head.

Too late. Levi started beneath the surface, squirming against the ceaseless current, aching for air, feeling every slight movement of his lungs collapsing, gasping, tears mixing in with the gory ocean that encased him. When the shell broke, burning hazel eyes adjusting to the chasm, they were blinded by sunlight piercing through the sharp rocks, or tall windows; in a swollen sight, they looked the same. A figure, emerald and crimson, bursting at the seams in uncontrolled emotion (which of us is the loser here?) resembled a god, vengeful, guiding him deeper into the pallid caverns. A spill, immature and common, was bred in the rapids, without mercy or comfort in the touch of a child’s hand. It was loveless, damned, and he was worthy of nothing more, for one had to stand to dance, and the boy would live his life on his knees like a beggar.

“I was going to say felony,” he confessed vilely, mouth agape and jaw no longer his own, but a slave to words that couldn’t be understood. Something had slipped from his lips before and he would drink a gallon of soap to swallow it back like a pill, wash it down the bleach, take a four-hour bath, and not breathe calmly until time had passed and all the sinful cells that contributed to his filth had died ruthlessly. In his mind—no, in his left ear—the lion could hear his mother’s words and cowered like a cub. A tongue is a privilege, son, don’t abuse it with those words. He was a child, an echo, a mosaic of all he’d ever known, and all he’d soon forget, like those hushed but urgent whispers.

Felony. It didn’t make any sense. Of course, it was a crime to ruin the evening with your poor manners, he’d learn that when he got with the in-crowd perhaps, maybe they’d brand it on the inside of his wrist and smack it when he spoke out of turn. On the table, slowly turning black from the elegantly streaming poison, ruined papers of both students. Insecure notes, already rushed and jagged, were certainly illegible, and the corner of the textbook, which taught no lessons on refinement, would take a battle scar with no pride. On the inside, all growth had decayed as though the sun absorbed itself, drooped to the unforgiving floor and would crumble with the slightest touch, and on the outside, the clacking would speed. There were signs, too many to choose, and again, there were luscious dreams of escape, fleeting wisps of freedom, heavy oak doors slamming in sync with his first heartbeat.

The student he sat with—whom Levi’s tortured and desperate mind wanted to call the invader—spoke with a tone of spite that could only belong to a serpent, a wretched assumption but one to die beside, for it was the truth or Levi was six-feet-underground with a bouquet kissing his eyes. Even in frustration, they were aged reflections, but one kept his poise, and jealousy was suffocating as it spun the saint’s waves like the moon. The ink on the table should be his pitiful, theatrical blood. For a brief moment, the lion’s fear became lethal, frozen in a bitter, slaughtering stare with his downfall, his dead sense of redemption.

Then, a clink, one that could only be described as that sound, that melancholic sound of the floor collapsing, falling, no chance of bouncing back, the one to take whatever grip you had and cackle in your face like the karma police. The Gryffindor’s looked beneath the table, where his leg kept tapping like it was keeping time, mind entranced in futile begs to stop the moment and let him break. The weapon—the cursed vial—had rolled to the floor, a few charcoal, toxic drops of ink jumping from the glass and leaving blemishes on the assumed-Slytherin’s clothes, and the seeds of disdain were sewn before him.

Interacting With: @Levi Drakos | Hex: #143314

While Leonard had an arguably lesser belief in the concept of luck and fate than some, the encounter was nothing short of absolutely rotten luck for both of those sat at the table and whoever had the equally rotten luck to have been within the vicinity. Still, that would be implying he could be grouped with the Scottish stew of senseless stupidy, sewn by similarly senseless society separate from the civilised. The melting pot of everything he considered terrible about Hogwarts' newest gremlins of supposed goodness was present in the other. Really, it would've been amazingly beneficial for everyone if he would actually become a puddle beneath one's Wellingtons. Alas, luck was as deeply buried in the negatives as sir connoisseur of crime here would have been if the act was declared legal throughout the United Kingdom.

The closest thing to luck in the young academic's corporeal-based vocabulary was the term of odds. Fitting, seeing as he would now dedicate the remaining time he had in the day to being at odds with this blasphemous, bumbling, brainless balloon full of hot air and only hot air. Indeed, the Slytherin had been whisked away from any formal education of further arithmetic by the demanding letters of those who replaced the teaching of sense with the teaching of medieval defense, he had put it upon himself to make sure he could stay up to date with the latest discoveries that wouldn't flip off the universe's all-seeing eye before promptly ripping the fabric of all sanity to minuscule shreds. Sure, there were many complaints about how little the peculiar italicised symbols would be used in the supposed real world, but he was barely keeping a finger on the strand of reality anyhow. Also, he was just much better at calculation and science than things that required passion and belief. Terribly difficult to imagine, but he could distract himself with numerals and nannoplanktons. This time, however, it was to prove a point. To whom, exactly? As far as he knew, his only audience would be the void of nothingness he would encounter upon his ashes being scattered throughout the world, but he would pursue the endeavor in spite of it. Perhaps someday he would even get the chance to complete the chart and shove it down the other's throat. Better for everyone that a barrier be between those asinine announcements and the mortal realm.

After a moment of thought, he reached the answer. Not to the odds question, that had far too many varying factors. He could only assume the resident population constantly ticked downwards and downwards from numerous means, quite like the timer of the explosive device that rested deep within his form, holding all his anger at everything from the inherent injustices of the education system to disproportionate jam placement on bread. No, with the help of the said explosive device he found a way to reach immediate vengeance. It would exceed the title of disproportionate assigned to the quantity of artificial Irish raspberries that was put into his breakfast by a fair amount. It would be every belief summoned by being sorted into Slytherin that he so despised confirmed, every bit as overly dramatic and devoid of civility as the actions of those he looked upon with contempt stronger than the foundation of bricks and bones this school was built on. It was disgusting, it was maniacal, it was something that even by logic was completely unnecessary and would only escalate the situation into the sun's celestial wrath. All of these, taken into account both individually and as a whole, would be tossed into the rubbish bin for the fact it was absolutely perfect.

Seething, simmering with rage that was seconds away from bursting and burning the walls and the halls that housed this disgrace to humanity, he opened his mouth to speak again. Venom laced every syllable once more, an expression befitting an animal who was about to strike its helpless, suspecting prey settling on his face. Technically said prey wasn't completely helpless, as running away and living a life as a cave-dwelling hermit was still a thoroughly viable option, as it was with every fork in the twisting, turning road of being. That, however, was frowned upon by even the slightest speck of common sense, which he supposed there was a slim possibility of the other boy having.

"And I was about to call you an idiot," he leaned closer, careful to avoid staining the top of his shirt. Even in this state of full-fledged fury, he still feared the outrage and following disciplinary action that could come from his mother. "Until I became aware of how much worse you were."

The Slytherin took a glance down at his bag, a smile forming. Certainly, it was not a smile that suggested he was in any way pleased with the near irreversible damage done to the fabric's hue and texture. Certainly, it was not a smile that dare implied a creature born of the rainbow unicorn, cupcake-filled infernals had crossed the threshold of his body and filled him with the atrocious desire to forgive and forget. Certainly, it was not a smile that one could deduce to be well-meaning and comforting. It was devious and dastardly and told of his plan derived from that one film about anti-bullying he saw in nursery.

The hushed incantation that would be heard only by his seating partner was one of the very first taught to wide-eyed beginners, slowly but surely raising his own inkwell, glass gleaming with merry malice. In a turn of great odds for him the countercharm to the spell was much farther placed in the curriculum. With an arcane grip that could only be shaken by blowing winds of ajar apertures or every whit of wizardry and witchery being wiped from the world, Leonard positioned the pot just above the other's small skull, tilting it ever so slightly. Then a bit more. Then a bit more. Then just a bit more...

Banner By Winnie Harper

@Leonard Oaksworth

A cauldron simmered within Levi, of animal organs and wilted blooms, of ego, topped with an insatiable hunger for power. A lid lay over it, the exterior was painted a soft, innocuous lavender. The blood red shade of his robes was muted, still flowing in his veins like a river uphill rather than spilled onto the floor, the wooden table, his study partner’s clothing. It was safe, not a slick puddle of the essence of another person, there was no mess beneath the livers and lungs. Innocence still reigned its terror over the brunet, trapped beneath the bludgeoning thumb of youth, drowning in its fountain and singing in its poor, begging choir. He looked so gentle. He was so gentle, for the hunger was briefly suppressed by the table, the safety, a dam that came crumbling now and only now, with sharp daggers piercing through him from the Slytherin’s stern gaze. A disapproving mother.

He had to admit, he thought Hell would be warmer than this. Chills emerged and crashed down his spine in glacial combers, nipping at his nerves, the air whistled on through his hair and made it stand on end. The unforgiving algid air between the two students never settled, dancing a constant arctic wave through the duo, and he stayed physically frozen as though ice had welded him to the once comforting seat. While his wits were all at sea and his head was aching and wandering about a fathomless chasm where blistering stones fell upon him and punished his craft, the rest of the room was stilly and static. The world hadn’t reacted to yet another broken heart in the ocean of fractions, perhaps because nothing had really fallen save a piece of vanity shaped like a heart. Maybe, just maybe, the universe could tell when one of its own died.

Maybe then there would be celestial tears, a string of good karma leading back to faith in what blanketed over those whose souls are not whole. The thunderous pressure of the saintly bodies forcing pieces back together. Faith occulted vapors, but only until it could be proven true by charisma, which while Levi lacked, the universe had a wealth of to donate. It extended forever, in mourning of the loss, the stoic nature of their darling’s first world problems. But it was able to tell, it knew when that woe was cosmetic, when it was as shallow as the waters which the sun would gouge the murk from and the massive, cosmic creatures could only wash up there, not live, not like Levi. So, no one mourned a life; there was no denial, no anger, no acceptance. Life dragged on heavy, leaving bloody treads but no mess built for cleaning up.

Ruptured glass had rained down upon the room, stabbing various books and slivering their revered dusty pages, lodging itself in the strong shelves of history, pricking exposed flesh on its way to the floor, yet the windows remained intact. There was an eruption, the library began to quake and the children that infested its grandiose architecture would howl until their lungs collapsed, yet it remained tranquil. Black ink had cleansed the ground of Levi’s iniquity, filled their throats and burned their eyes, yet its river ran solely as far as the edge of the table and atop the belongings of the older student. The brunet was caught between the tides of rapture and crucifixion, and perhaps for once, praying the way he’d been taught.

If Levi weren’t encased in ice, the sheer tone of the boy may have sent him with his tail tucked, been a card for resilience and persistence to be nurtured in the future. A lesson learned. Oddly enough, the heat of hatred wasn’t present—it was worse. He may die of frostbite the way the older student had devoured the sunlight, leaving the air with a soft blue tint as the color began to drain away into the inner metal core of the Earth. It was the apocalypse, please, a lifeless habitat bred by pure disdain. All the world’s warmth was imprisoned in that blood, red not by biology’s fashion, but by the trace of a sempiternal gasoline fire.

An idiot. One of the most wretched things someone could be, a blind sheep with wool pulled over its eyes. Levi was crestfallen, a ethereal body flickering out of sight. The serpent inched forward, warm breath thawing at the brunet’s nival, rueful gaze, usual hazel painted slightly bluer. There wasn’t enough tepidity left in his body to blush. Worse than. “I meant no harm, uh—” A dictionary was sprawled open in the lion’s mind, yet the words were blacked out like poetry. Or classified documents. “I can, er, make it up to you, let me—”

In the serrated wave of that moment, Levi would watch the shift in his seating partner’s mien. Each part of his face began to disfigure, lips turned aberrantly upward parading the blood stains on his pearly whites, eyes honing their highlight of knavery; there was a sinister overcast to his grin and a sharp intake of breath to steal any atmosphere that hovered. The entire transition lasted all of a couple decade long seconds, but each moment was defined, stark, abused with intention. When the older brunet, the brother he’d never wanted, drew his wand, first, the corporate, soothed mind noted it was shorter than his. Second, he considered actively dodging should the fury drive an unofficial duel.

We must recall, the ice keeps him motionless, even the shallow chest inflations and deflations subdued by the absence of breath. His lungs were wizened and raven, and as the ice was melted to a puddle, his hair mirrored those organs. A warmness slithered through him, not by the loving hand of respite but by the gritting incantation of levitation, of a black shower, bathing in his own sin as the vile confessions slammed back into his bruised visage. A thick black liquid leaked down obscuring sight, stinging as his raw hands shot up by instinct to rub the ink away, instead pushing it to seep into his flesh and eyes and smear along otherwise immaculate skin. These stains ran along his cheekbones and forehead, continuing to color his hair and gush to his torso to the clothing covering it.

He’d shriek. Who knew, karma would be getting involved.