The Mannequin Boy PV Leonard Oaksworth RPG++++

Interacting With: @Celynne Gray | Dialogue Hex: #143314

If asked about his stance on the social label and where exactly he would fit within the self-imposed confines of an early adolescent’s mind, Leonard Oaksworth would not consider himself a gossip. A connoisseur of information from all corners of the magical and muggle world, certainly. A specialist of the sciences and mathematical measures, surely. An experienced expert in dealing with daily dollops of doubts, dread, and disappointment in oneself, exactly the case. But a mere gossip? The very possibility any entity on this earth would even think of him in that way for a moment sent a shiver down his commonly bent, creaking spine. He was far from sharing any personality traits with his grandmother and her tea-time friends and other-time enemies, as far as he chose to know, and he would gladly rent out a domesticated dragon to make that distance even larger. The term was laced intricately with negativity and hushed judgement, which was perfectly fine in every other situation concerning the Slytherin, but applying a name to it just seemed rude. He’d spent all day formulating defenses for the question should any of his fictional opponents approach him and initiate a fictional argument he’d fictionally win eventually, for he was about to commit the most not-gossip-y-but-very-close-to-it act yet in his not-gossip-y-but-very-close-to-it career.

If there was any other single stamp of disapproval the boy would vehemently deny with his whole shriveled tinfoil heart to be applied to said boy, it would be that of a hypocrite. Almost the entirety of his life, although also spent largely in early onset crisis, was majorly spent worshipping the divine temple known to the modern members of society as the library. If not in his bedroom reading, or dining on suspiciously bitter brownies whilst reading, or pretending to be having a bout of intestinal issues to get out of social events and reading in the lavatory once his ever so palpable charisma worked its charms, he would be found in the beloved area designated for nothing but silence and going on all sorts of intellectual adventures flying upon the written word. Any who possessed such large reserves of brashness so as to think themselves above the unspoken laws set before all who entered the sacred space of shelves and sheets of ink and paper had been promptly slapped in the face with as much retribution as the boy saw fit, which ranged from the slap in the face being literal to a short scowl being swung over to them. The library had one purpose, to enlighten all those who walked through the slightly dusty, dark doors, and any who made an attempt to use it for other means were to be swiftly punished. Again came the justification that would twist and turn every tenet so as not to test anything he’d believed in for all of his existence, the muttered mantra made to assume the moral high ground when absolutely nobody cared. He was seeking enlightenment, technically. It was just that the enlightenment pertained to that of understanding the current statuses and personal opinions of his fellow students instead of some odd Belarusian plant’s required blooming conditions.

Really, really, this was all the fault of that blasted promise he’d made. He didn’t often think of himself as a loyal sort of associate when it came to everyone he’d met in the castle, opting for descriptors such as ‘tired’ and ‘begrudging’ much more often, but when it came to things such as a pledge with two families’ honours on the line, he was nothing if not settled on coming through with what he and the peculiar blonde had agreed upon. Of course, he had disclaimed that the Oaksworths weren’t one of the elite aristocrats sitting on thrones of well-established aptitude for the practice of magic, that his ancestors hadn’t achieved worldwide fame for their positions in the magical government or earned every Quidditch record known to humankind, but that hadn’t seemed to deter the girl at all. And thus, he was now stuck in the utterly deplorable rut of responsibility, all but a servant to the conditions of the rather vague terms they agreed upon. He wasn’t against the mission of their alliance, seeing as he would absolutely benefit from making a few blood purists a cautionary tale of justice, but he was against the fact he actually needed to do things and talk to people to put that mission to work. There was no real point in dwelling on his self-dug grave, however, and though he would still be having his hours of the earliest morning reserved for looking over the regrets he’d ordered in bulk and wondering how he’d become such a failure of a person so quickly he needed to deliver on his end of the promise. Enter his very strange, very tenuous web of ties to some folk who were just as strange, and their fingers pointing to a certain athenaeum-residing Ravenclaw.

The young Slytherin had spent the entire day in the secret fifth state of matter: panic. From the moment he’d woken up from the tri-weekly nightmare of disappearing from the memories of everyone who’d ever meant something to him, he aimed to tailor the standard outline for meeting any sort of authority figure for his later appointment. The title of ‘authority figure’ would be used more loosely for the specific situation he’d found himself in, for nothing he’d learned about the tradesperson of tips as to whose soul he could try to crush conclusively stated she was or had been a prefect. In fact, if he were to count how he’d learned that conclusively stated anything at all, he’d barely need an education past nursery school to tally those snips of sure knowledge in total. He wasn’t exactly sure whether that made her even less or even more reliable, seeing as he had expected most of the broker’s personal details to be somewhat shrouded in secrecy anyhow, but it really wouldn’t have hurt if he’d known precisely what would make her agree to his sweetly scented offer. It soon became apparent he’d have to rely on his innate magnetism for the most part, which also made his impending rejection apparent, but he hadn’t written seven owls to his mother to get these muffins for nothing. All that was necessary were the basics of human interaction, he told himself. Confident stance, confident tone, confident win. A cracking first impression would get his cranium cracking to a second priority, that was the saying that he’d spend another half hour assuring himself was said by actual living people who actually lived at some point in actual time.

When the time came to trek and take a trip to his terrifying termination via a student who was just, if not more, terrifying and likely wouldn’t take her time doing the termination, he was almost convinced that he was ready. Almost convinced was set at a very low bar in this case, since the nagging voice strutting around his brain to shout that he was going to get a barbell of a book launched at him for even trying to approach the repository of reading materials only got more provoked by any convincing that wasn’t done from imagining what a pain it would be to actually get a barbell of a book to any of his body parts. Besides, how could anyone actually be fully ready for anything? Even the most positive of his peers couldn’t possibly be completely ready for the Charms test later or the opening of a Howler or a sudden battle with evil spirits who’d obtained a taste for children half a millennia ago. Then again, his father had said again and again that it was all a matter of the mind. That would’ve been fine, perfectly fine, if his mind could just shut itself down sometimes and let him do things without having a sudden compulsion to check for any miniscule cracks in the floor, lest the concrete-dwelling creatures escape from a centimetre of unsealed tile and wreak havoc on all of human society. Alas, all he could do was check the appearance of his shoes every other minute and hope it would be the catalyst to ultimate success.

After many, many minutes of the shoe-checking that totally was not a stalling tactic, the boy finally reached the library. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t visited the Hogwarts library even for a second in his schooling years, but everything felt so new, and more importantly, everything felt much more panic inducing. Perhaps someone had cast the forgetfulness charm upon him seconds before, and all at once the room he’d studied so many times in became all but an opportunity for everything to go wrong. What if that boy sitting at least fifteen feet away from him spilled ink all over his clothing? What if the financier of the details made mandatory by that ever so annoying vow of commitment was entirely fictional, and it had all been an elaborate prank a classroom’s worth of students had joined forces to put into action? What if his formal style of walking caused a concentrated earthquake that would make a shelf full of thousands of writing works fall onto his wooden plank of a body? So many hazards, such little time to get rid of them all. He continued to usurp the energy of a full parade’s marching band nonetheless, looking straight ahead to his destination and hoping it wouldn’t lead to his immediate death before he could truthfully assert in ghostdom he really was trying to do something good.

It was with a small, sharp breath that he walked past the bookshelf to come face to face with the enigmatic student he’d heard so much, yet so little, about.

Usually it would be at that point in their not-quite-meeting he would quickly examine the girl to find any possible particulars he could use to his advantage. However, he found it hard to concentrate on his methodical approach to the scrutinizing session, his mind deciding to skip to the conclusion immediately: this girl looked tired. And that was coming from someone who checked his reflection right after five hours of wondering whether anything he did would change anything about the universe’s decided chain of events instead of counting shawarma or whatever it was people who slept did. Speaking of sleep, as much as a health professional would probably recommend a full week of doing nothing but drifting in and out of altered consciousness, the boy really, really, really hoped she could put that off long enough to a) not die and b) give him something of use for his fiendish pact. Even a man born without any cells meant to create eyes would be able to see that the person Leonard was effectively dumping all his family’s honour onto would probably break if an amoeba was dumped on her. At the very least, he wouldn’t get pummeled into a pulp physically. With the expression he was now uncomfortably aware of, though, verbally the beatdown was very much feasible. No matter, looks didn’t mean everything. You know, even if he had spent a solid half-hour deciding between a half-Windsor and a Pratt knot, nobody cared anyways. Absolutely nobody.

After a moment of deafening stillness, he remembered that apparently staring at someone and hoping they knew what was on one’s mind hadn’t yet become an acceptable form of communication. A shame, really, but he’d practiced this entrance many times. He kept his voice even, trying to shift to the business-like tone he’d heard on the television and the trio of suited men from the bank who kept on glaring at his father whenever they entered the bakery.

“My name is Leonard Oaksworth,” he set down the pale orange box of baked treats previously held in both hands as though it was the Holy Grail on the jungle of ink and parchment that hid something like furniture underneath, the little golden label of his surname reflecting the gleaming light sailing past through glass and slits of sky. “And I was told you might be able to help me with a rather urgent matter.”