Faust PV Finished

@Vladimir Athentos, @Selim Faust, @Aaron Jones, & @Marion Davenport

A death glare was being given him by a certain, slightly scary upperclassman, but Piérre didn’t meet his eyes, instead looking down at Marion. Piérre was, in fact, a leftie, and so due to this unusual trait, has his left hand entwined in Marion’s. Still, that did not prevent him fro feeling the signature cold that emanated from the corpse-like body. A part of Piérre did indeed fret that perhaps she was not alive. Had he really killed her from that short, twenty foot drop? It seemed improbable, nay, impossible, for the boy to have achieved such a grim feat. Certainly, if it was true, was something that would have a strong effect towards breaking the boy. He was, without a doubt, scared.

Words of poison were being spit back right at him, and Piérre relapsed into the reserved boy who was used to running away and reconvening, trying to approach and strategize tentatively and cautiously to permit himself least bodily harm. Piérre’s eyes flicked about more rapidly, almost anxiously, looking to see if there was a way out. He was feeling more like a trapped animal every passing moment, the only path between him and the way out being the three other individuals trapped in here with him, and Marion’s connective woe spread amongst them just as easily.

“Never!” Piérre wailed in response to Vladimir’s rhetorical question. Piérre didn’t care if it wasn’t a question that was supposed to be answered. Something near rage was beginning to simmer now. What part of his honesty didn’t this boy seem to understand? “If my house is any indication of my honor, I would bleed out protecting her! Even if I weren’t ‘honor bound’ because of the implications of a lion, I assure you that I am more than capable of more than just fighting or running away, as the case may call for.” Piérre was surprised at himself as his words ended with an unintended hiss.

Tonight was just all sorts of new for him; a temper, a small swear, an accident that made him seem a boy guilty of causing injury. What would the next night bring? Madness?

Not too far of a stretch, actually.

Piérre was watching intently, the going ons around him, the potions being discussed and removed and jostled around. Things that the Britalian had never heard of up to that point. Thick Golden? What in the world was that? Perhaps a more powerful healing potion.

He was half listening to his arguer bickering with the boy who looked really worse for wear, the small, pale boy with glass in his face and in his hands. Certainly not comfortable by any stretch of the imagination, certainly harmed. And yet, he refused the use of Magic to help heal him.

As Vladimir went on to explain the more gory bits of Muggle healing, the setting of bones and the wiring of a jaw to help it realign and heal, Piérre grimaced to himself, gently keeping vigilance over Marion. He wasn’t an entire stranger to Muggle healing. He had cracked a rib here and there, broken an arm, sprained an ankle. Nothing as traumatic as what the boy seemed to share openly. Traumatic injuries required assistance, intense Muggle assistance, and despite himself, Piérre found himself nodding along with his once arguer. Despite the heated tension between the two, Piérre had to admit when the boy was sound in his reasoning.

He desperately wanted to chime in with his own advice, but judging on his tenuous position, Piérre felt that it would be better to keep his trap closed for once instead of offering a suggestion or input. He sensed there was more struggle and rhyme to reason under the surface. Perhaps it would not be best to pipe up and cause unnecessary strife when there was enough struggle as was.

However, it was the mention of curse that sent the Britalian’s mind turning. Curse? As in like, Imperius, Crucio? No... that didn’t seem to line up with what he was seeing of Marion.

By this point, he had watched the piping being fed down Marion’s throat and seen an indication of green bile. As he watched, Piérre subconsciously felt his throat tightening, contracting as he imagined the foreign object being let down his own esophagus. The nauseating pressure was something that caused his stomach to heave, though no sound left him. He was entranced by the proceedings, to a degree of shock that he could not look away. Her hand in his sounded like broken glass. Was it broken?

“Her... Marion’s hand is broken, I think.” He said quietly.

When a considerable and appropriate time had passed, Piérre finally dared to ask his question. “You said something about a curse. What kind of curse?” He said even softer, collecting his will to meet the gaze of the upperclassman.

Mod Note: Piérre has brought his Moontrimmer, Luciana
He chooses to place his +3s to Evasion (+13) and Stamina (6)
He also possesses a 10% Auto-dodge rate

Statistics and Abilities
Stamina 6 | Strength 3 | Evasion 13
Wisdom 10 | Accuracy 10 | ArcPower 5

Keen Eye: 25% Chance to Spot something Important
Calming Presence: 10% Auto-hit Rate. Allies: @Piérre Marchonné, Romeo Marchonné, Hanzo Fransson, @Rafael D'Spacito, & @Marion Davenport

I'm too lazy to actually do art in an hour's time, and I'm working on the costume still, so have this image reference of Piérre's badass Mister L cosplay...

Reducio

In light of the months Madeleine hasn't responded, I have gone ahead and posted.

the comment about victor made Selim's gaze focus on the boy. His eyes calculating faintly the words spoken. A sharp curiosity that was entirely clinical. He let out a sigh, "I have no one, not truly... though I'm glad he did." The last words were muttered as his gaze became unfocused. He was pulled back to the past, before... before he had to deal with his clan. The shadow, the one he saw every day in the corner of his eyes.

Perhaps Vladimir didn't truly care. His words, his uncaring about Moore being torn apart by his dormmates, echoed in his head. His mind didn't like the contrast between those words at what he saw in front of him now. So, it rested on a tumultuous neutrality to the situation. So, instead of pinning the blame for the death on a boy he barely knew, he pinned it on himself. He didn't feel any particular remorse about the snuffing of Victor's life, he only looked back on it with the emotions he did... because it was the start of a path that was much, much darker than some may think at first.

His thoughts were interrupted by the unwanted presence in the room. His frustration spiked.

Selim's teeth grit as the whiny Gryffindor continued being rather stubborn, and rather rude. Was the Gryffindor that girl's friend? No, yet he refused to listen to her last living companion.

The thoughts twisted, turned, became darker, more violent as he eyed the Gryffindor with a flashing look of unhinged malice.

He growled lowly, ignoring how his throat throbbed with the bestial noise. His irritation was reaching new rights, likely due to whatever bloodloss did to one's brain.

"Be quiet." He said in a hiss to the Gryffindor.

Vladimir's responses made his head throb as it tried to search through logic and his own trauma. Finally, he snapped. "Fine! I'll compromise, Athanatos." He let out a deep sigh, clutching at his head as the noises clamoured inside his mind. For a while he muttered, straining against the mental stress that was born of his already-degrading mind being worsened by the situation. "Just. A potion to fix whatever that bloody girl did to my jaw. It's likely the one hardest to heal normally. The cuts don't matter, cleaning, stitches, bandages."

He swallowed harshly, perhaps to get rid of the coagulating blood building in his mouth. He looked at the cynical Ravenclaw, eyes burning dully. "Just the jaw. Nothing else." His whole body recoiled at the thought of chugging questionable liquid magic, past experiences from his time after 'That Night' echoing in his skull like vengeful ghosts.

At the rate the Eagle's companions were falling down to the abyss of death, Selim idly wondered, how much longer this boy would last in a world against him...

Ravenclaws were stubborn, it was no wonder Athanatos was outliving his 'friends'.

He looked at the Gryffindor stubbornly remaining where he wasn't wanted. "You're presence isn't helping her. In fact, it's hindering her. You should not be touching her if she has broken bones, who knows if you're currently unknowingly causing more damage to the more fragile bones in her hands? You're loud, obnoxious voice isn't helping me at all, and your're assistance in defying the one who is closest to her, is uncaring, rude, and not honourable at all."

His voice grew venomous with irritation, "So either leave, or back away from her and let him tend to her without you getting underfoot. That is how you can help her."

He let out a wincing hiss as his jaw throbbed, he coughed, and leaned against the bed. His head throbbed, he was tired, and he wished that people would stop making those cursed voices aggravated with their annoying words. They were all whispering at once, blended in with unnerving noises that made his heart beat fast, which wasn't helping the bleeding problem.

He shook, leaning back, uninjured hand covering his visible eye. He twitched and jerked as his skin began to feel... restricting, tight, wrong.

He swallowed down bile, breathing in shakily in an attempt to level out his lung's cycles.

He was tired. He just wanted his jawbone fixed, an effort to compromise between him and the boy who couldn't be forced to see a point of view that Selim had made based on a unique experience. He wanted him to understand, but he'd have to take it to an even level.

Compromise was something that helped humans work cohesively.

He only hoped that the boy he barely knew at least let him have that.

OOC: Apologies, I just didn't realize it was my turn - I must've missed a notification

Regular Text - English | Bolded Text - French | Bolded Black Text - Japanese
Interacting: @Selim Faust, @Vladimir Athanatos, @Piérre Marchonné
Mentioning: @Marion Davenport

This whole encounter was making Madeleine's head hurt. Selim Faust seemed adamant about refusing magical means of healing, a decision that baffled the young girl. Was he a muggle-born and preferred to heal the muggle way? It seemed like such a silly idea to her, to stay in pain when a simple wave of their wand or a sip of a potion could remove such pain. But then she thought back to her dance classes. How much blood, sweat and tears were involved in getting a dance completely correct. The pain was rewarding in that case, proving a job well done.. but still, Selim's logic eluded her. The pain here proved nothing except for being victim to an insane attack at a masquerade ball. Why would you want to stay in such pain?

One thing he said stuck out to her. "Sadly I doubt this injury is going to kill me. Using up this stock of potions able to, you know, keep my Slytherin housemates from painfully dying to a curse is entirely unnecessary, Athanatos, and I'd rather not be blamed for possibly indirectly murdering them." A potion for a curse for the Slytherins? Is that what the golden potion was that she had handed to Vladimir? Vladimir confirmed the sentiment, also mentioning a curse. What curse?

"You're allowing superstition and paranoia to leave you crippled, drink the red one. Pick your favorite of the red ones if you think my date is trying to poison me... you... her." Vladimir was trying to convince Selim to just drink the potions that Madeleine had brought, and she self-consciously crossed her arms and jutted her chin out slightly at the idea of trying to poison them. Of course that's not what she was doing, it seemed that Selim was quite a paranoid one. Did he not trust the potions she had just grabbed from their school hospital? Vladimir sounded like such a voice of reason in comparison to the injured boy. Oh, maybe that was it. Maybe he had knocked his head so hard that he was spouting nonsense. Maddie really hoped he would take the red potion from the desk, but she would not press the matter. She had helped deliver him to the Hospital Wing, that was her job done. Honestly she could leave now, but everything being said had such.. meaning. She was curious.

Madeleine followed behind Vladmir from a distance as he went to tend to the blonde girl. Marion. That was what the costumed boy at her side called her. Vlad seemed so practiced in what he was doing - administering the potions with such care - and Maddie was left to once again wonder who this girl was to him.

It was weird for her being here. This was a foreign school to her - she didn't know this room or these people or the tensions that seemed to surround their houses. The way they had cast around their house names - Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Slytherin - it seemed like there was always some double meaning behind their words that she was not privy to. Having been at Hogwarts for a few weeks now, she had of course picked up on the basics of what sorted people into the different houses, but the way these guys spoke was on a different level.

Selim seemed to relent about taking a potion - for his jaw. Nothing else, he clarified. She was no healer yet, so assumed Vladimir would have the answer there. He seemed quite talented in healing - even describing Muggle healing to an extent she had no clue about.

"You said something about a curse. What kind of curse?" Madeleine raised her eyes, not realizing she had also been staring at the process Vlad was using to administer the potion. She was quite interested in the answer herself, and her dark eyes resettled on her date for the evening, wondering if he would explain. He seemed very put out with the costumed boy beside Marion, so he might snap at him instead. Madeleine seated herself on a bed nearby, waiting to see if Vlad would answer, but instead her head snapped towards Selim again as he had another outburst.

Well, Selim was right about the boy holding Marion's hand possibly causing more damage. He probably should just leave it to Vladimir. But she still didn't understand his role in all of this. She firmly didn't believe the boy had pushed her from the broom, but Vladimir seemed convinced that he had. As Selim demanded that the boy leave Marion alone, Madeleine got to her feet and walked over to him.

"You're being very harsh to a boy who only seems to be trying to help," she said, in the language that only Selim would understand. She watched him stagger, looking more and more beat up the more she looked at him. "You're in pain, and it's not helping, so sit down before you keel over."

"You said Skelegro for his jaw, right?" Madeleine called to Vladimir, glancing over her shoulder to get confirmation. Whether he confirmed that potion or a different one, she would go in search of it in the infirmary whilst keeping an ear on the situation. She would use the opportunity to help with another potion as a way to continue gathering information, then she could regale Cassanora with the craziness of the evening later that night.

What really happened up there? How did that Gryffindor convince poor Marion to climb onto the back of his broom. She had seen it, she knew exactly what they had done to her, what they had done to Victor. She hated them as much as Vladimir did. They were dangerous and if they had the opportunity, they would do the same thing to them that they had to him.

"Do you think I am playing at some game here lion?" Vladimir nearly spat. "My friend spent months in the hospital because of you sort," he did not fault a single person, he faulted a whole house. Honestly, he could conflate this to mean the school, many were idle onlookers. Gryffindor might have started the literal fire but Slytherin dealt the final blow. "You took Mary up and threw her onto the ground!" He yes, shouted. His face red, the great vessels in his throat pulsating. "There was no way she would climb onto your broom willingly. You damn bloody monster, she never did anything to you!"

A lot more than her hand was broken. Her ribs, her legs, her arms, likely her spine. "We don't need your help, you're the cause!"

His house was apparently a statement of his character. Don't make him laugh.

"Your house. Your HOUSE tells me the caliber of your character," or rather the lack thereof. His hands shook, his head throbbed violently. He had but one impulse and it was to leave the boy empty, hollow. To make it so that he would be less than his trespasses, that he would exist in an infinite redundancy. For once, one that deserved it. Yet he could not, his upper lip twitched into what would have been a snarl had it not been for his conceited efforts.

She just needed a drink. Maybe a few then she would be fine like all the other times. Those times before where she shattered like a piece of broken china. Those times where her hand was as cold as death, when she stopped breathing. When she shattered and he had to put her back together. he just needed a little more time and he would fix everything!

What sort of curse?

"The sort you die from," he replied. "But don't celebrate just yet, we're harder to dispatch than that."

The situation was simply ridiculous. Selim, whose thoughts had been laid out before his feet. Refusing medicine, practicing useless and futile paranoia. There was much worse to be consumed and subsumed than a bit of a potion. Rather than partake in the very same substance he would take himself, give to the girl, that every other person in this school would take he would rather what? Suffer? Heal the muggle way? Leave himself debilitated, crippled and vulnerable for what ends? To punish himself. To show his endurance. To feed a distrust that made no sense.

The boy was not touched by any darkness beyond the shadows of his own making.

Selim would consent ultimately for something to help his jaw. Thankfully, the boy was none to bright. If he thought a potion would deal with just his jaw, that it could or would pick and choose, then he had an unfortunate lack of understanding in regards to how magic works. "Take it then," he grunted as he funneled the potions provided by Madeline. He was not going to feed Selim also, his hands were not broken also. As for Marion, she might drown, but she would heal. Death was temporary wasn't it? Death was merely a state, and states can change. It was a barrier and those could be overcome

Skelegrow, right?

"Yes, please," Vladimir replied. At the very least he could remember his manners. "If he does not want it, don't force it on him. You're liable to get bitten... well, probably not, broken jaw and all," he self-corrected. A purposeful reminder to the young snake of what he denies himself by remaining injured.

Lift the head, tuck the head forward. Pour it on in.

When shattered, there was pain. Oh hell yes, there was pain. This jarring, all consuming sense that makes you want to twist and writhe about but too broken to do so. The agony, it was everywhere. And then, in a blink that would last too long it would be over. There would be nothing, just the darkness. As if underwater. Voices muted but worried. No sense of time, proprioception or worry.

She could hear the shouting, as if it was coming from another room. She knew they were talking about her but in this state it seemed so much less relevant. There was no pondering, there was no concern. She just was even when she was not.

Then something invaded her, filled her mouth and touched her lungs. Drowning. Not that she could move, only know. A sense of panic, a sense of dread. That human instinct to fight, to breathe. Yet, she could not. Not until... the potion did its good work. Until the torn tendons and rippled ligaments started to mend, the bones knit. The nerves unite and with it a firestorm of electrical activity, shots of newfound and forgotten pain.

She would rise with a gurgling cough. A series of hacks that racked her seemingly frail body. Her bones moves unnaturally, many still broken and not yet repaired. Skelegrow would make short work of the healing, but it was still a protracted and painful experience. "Gah!" She would cry, her hands would uselessly flail, unable to grip or bend. Out from her mouth, into the sheet in front of her she would wretch a black... black bile.

@Vladimir Athentos, @Selim Faust, @Aaron Jones, & @Marion Davenport

They were closing in on him, narrowing accusations, fighting words. Chip by chip, the diamond heart in the boy's chest was being broken and compromised, changing and realigning to still twinkle in the faux illusion that it had never been scarred in the first place. He seemed to be the anomaly of the school, the strange, colorful, delightful child who was unburdened and wide-eyed. Surrounded by those who claimed shadows and darkness, rumors that Piérre himself had heard and acknowledged yet not seen with his own eyes. He tended to believe most things that he heard...

But not claims that he was a monster. What was a monster but a being whose sole intent is chaos and misery? Nothing wished for misery. Nothing should desire the injury or compromisation of another's well-being. The boy, the Britalian, the child known as Piérre Marchonné was not a monster as far as his spinning mind could comprehend. The dagger sunk into his back, some finding purchase, some barely turned aside from lethality, but all of them having found their marks.

He had not pushed her. He had not pushed her. He had not pushed her.

He had not pushed her?

He had not pushed her.

“If you do not like my house, I could not care less. I don't feel I belong there either.” He curtly responded to the injuries one by one. Compartmentalize, assess, react, retaliate. Reform.

His heart hurt. “I don't care. I'm not brave. I'm not tricky or sly. I'm not overtly intelligent. I don't belong in a crowd. None of these is where I belong." His mind was racing. He never felt he belonged to one house or another. It was why his scintillating wardrobe always varied. It was why he stayed silent unless there was a moment to speak. It was why he avoided conflict.

This is why he knew he shouldn't have borne his heart or his concern. Someone would always cut him in return. Someone would get hurt. Someone would blame him.

Someone would make sure to get him killed. They would go to the ends of the earth if they had to, but they would inevitably use the kid's own beliefs and naïf obliviousness of his own purpose in this world to see him to his grave. It was something that Piérre thought of often, the idea that he would die young and forgotten, voice lost to wind and time.

He wasn't angry anymore, or nervous, or intimidated. He was tired. He was remembering. Remembering all those unpleasant things; of crashes and abandonment, events and misfortune. “You're hurting too.” He angled towards Selim. His eyes flicked to his, the thin boy's emancipated state a seeming normal in the school for tortured souls which resided here. “Not just physically. It's why you're shouting and lashing out. I don't expect you to trust me, and I know you won't, but whatever happened, whatever made you believe this is how you have to act as or be... I'm sorry." These words were soft. Suddenly the Britalian's eyes turned severe. “This isn't pity. But whatever happened, you didn't deserve it.”

Next his eyes trained on the upperclassmen. “The same extends to you. Neither of you deserved this; curse, paranoia, feeling the need to lash out. I am sorry this happened. That's all I have to say.” Even as quickly as he spoke, Piérre wound down. His heart was fluttering, and God knew if these individuals would eventually come to fisticuffs with him, but there was no rancor in his words. He was not giving up, but he was definitely coming down from his previous stress-induced state.

The heaving of Marion suddenly caused the boy to bite his lip and return himself to action. “Marion! It's okay, it's okay! A friend of yours is here. I don't... I'm sorry for what happened, but you're gonna be okay, okay?" Her hand ripped away from his. His actions would not have hurt her at all compared to what she was doing to herself; flailing broken bones and aggravating whatever cursed healing she was going through. “C_calm down. It's alright. Everyone is here. You took a bad fall, but this guy gave you something and...” Had the effects of the potion been entirely good? He didn't know. He would simply have to trust.

The action of Marion throwing up pitch black caused the boy to cringe slightly. This meant one of two things from what he understood of Muggle and Wizarding matters; either the darkness and viscosity had been caused blood, implying that there was internal bleeding in the GI track or lungs, or else this was the curse that the upperclassmen had spoken of but moments earlier. Either way, neither option was good.

“This... Is this normal?” Piérre glanced at the upperclassmen. His voice was low. This was genuine curiosity and concern. No, he knew this was far from normal, but it was worth asking anyways. “I'll grab the bedpan just in case.”

So saying, he stooped down and collected the bedlam under the bed (assuming it is clean), and gently held it before Marion to catch whatever else she might bring up. “Do you need me to hold your hair back?”

Mod Note: Piérre has brought his Moontrimmer, Luciana
He chooses to place his +3s to Evasion (+13) and Stamina (6)
He also possesses a 10% Auto-dodge rate

Statistics and Abilities
Stamina 6 | Strength 3 | Evasion 13
Wisdom 10 | Accuracy 10 | ArcPower 5

Keen Eye: 25% Chance to Spot something Important
Calming Presence: 10% Auto-hit Rate. Allies: @Piérre Marchonné, Romeo Marchonné, Hanzo Fransson, Rafael D'Spacito, & @Marion Davenport

I'm too lazy to actually do art in an hour's time, and I'm working on the costume still, so have this image reference of Piérre's badass Mister L cosplay...

Reducio

"The scars you can't see are the hardest to heal." - Astrid Alanda

The Japanese words were the first to catch his attention, they always were. His tense gaze slid to the girl, fingers curling as he tried to continue sitting upright in his bed.

"I am being harsh because he is loud and I have a concussion, my head is pounding. I feel on the verge of vomiting and his yelling doesn't help in the slightest. His insistence is irritating on a deep level. I am not scorning him because of his sincerity but because of how he is acting on that sincerity. Which is poorly." He responded in a strained, snappish tone, similarly in Japanese.

The sallow boy looked at Athanatos, the eagle's anger visible in his posture, his expression, the tension and harshness of his tone. Selim's mind was cascading with a chaotic storm of primal fear, pain, and deep, violent rage. He was trying to keep his breaths even through the pain as he avoided looking at the potions entirely even as the Ravenclaw, still ever so level, told him which one to drink.

To drink.

The Gryffindor then actually spoke to Selim, whereas before he seemed too busy stewing in self-loathing and denial. His words sounded similar to the false comforting of a lying priest, words he was told often that were void of actual care.

They felt out of place, sudden, a speech that did not match the boy's patterns. In response, Selim merely shifted his gaze away, still affected by the truth in those words despite their hollow comforts. His hand tightened and he closed his eyes, an annoyed frown pulling at his gaunt features, hiding their actual effect. "I'm not lashing out of you because of my own dark past. I'm lashing out because you are very loud, and I have a f*cking concussion, or migraine at the least." His fingers twitched in irritation at being painted as some sort of wounded boy who was only allowed to be annoyed at people because of his cursed past and unhealthy mental state. "And because your persistence is getting in the way of, you know, actually healing the girl who seemed to have shattered literally every bone in her body which happened because of some unsourced fall from your broom."

He ignored the Ravenclaw's backhanded snideness that he honestly didn't fault with what was going on right now.

Swearing under his breath, aggression soring higher than it had been ever since that summer, he cupped his head in his hands as the pounding headache and dizziness spiked with his blood pressure.

Everyone just felt like they kept pushing at him, shoving him closer to a cliff until he would fall off into a blind rage. He wanted silence, a chance to actually think but he wasn't really getting it. The voices, the hallucinations, they kept contorting every single thought he was trying to form, tainting it with an undirected bitterness.

'Resistances is foolish, it's a simple task, just drink the potion-'

His stomach churned with memories, and the back of his throat suddenly seemed to burn like a hot iron. Eyes watering with what he dismissed as pain, his attention shifted as the life of a girl who once looked like a corpse flared.

A flicker of implicated panic as she was forced to drink a liquid she was not prepared for, an awakening. She jolted upright as whatever she seemed to take acting quicker than what he was told it should at the compound.

Black bile spewed out of her with the consistency of the liquified embodiment of rot. He watched passively. She was alive, that was good...

But... was living with the pain that the pair seemed to bear really worth it?

That very thought often crossed his mind, as he constantly questioned the worth of his existence, his suffering. He had never truly applied it to someone else before, but with these two it seemed to fit just as well.

'The potion...'

His heart was beating too fast, it felt like a drumbeat ringing through his skull, the rush of blood just more noise added to the cacophony he was hearing that no one else was. Mutely he pulled his legs up to his chest, cradling his head in his knees as he tried to breathe, to calm down even slightly.

Selim felt like a bowstring pulled too tight, ready to snap and lash the one bearing it in the face like a painful whip. He was trying to control himself but was failing miserably. The pain, the headache, it was an amalgamation of stress that he hadn't been ready to bear yesterday. The stress in the room was feeding that tumour like a child feeding a greedy pig.

The Slytherin just needed to get out, to get away, but he was more likely to fall down those stairs and die rather than reach the peace and quiet of the dungeons. Everything hurt, and he didn't know how to communicate it all to the strangers surrounding him. How does one talk to two normal humans? Two tortured ones? How do you even begin trying to communicate with people with such vastly different worlds than yours, such vastly different characters than yours?

It was as if he were speaking an alien language none of them could grasp, or they were simply too busy or too uncaring to try to grasp.

He was trapped, and he hated it.

The boy took a few moments, letting everyone focus on the girl beside him suffering from a different flavour of turmoil, a more obvious one where at least the tip of that iceberg could be treated. She was distracting them, that was good, she was on death's bed anyways and needed more attention than him. There was always someone who needed more attention than him.

Always, there was always someone.

' And that was good, of course, that was good, his problems were minuscule, unnoticeable, there were people who needed to be cared for before him and that was good-'

A good thing, that was a good thing, he didn't want need help, that was a good thing, others were more important-'

Selim took a shuddering breath. He didn't intend to cause conflict when he was dragged here, he didn't intend to waste people's time with his failed attempts at communicating like a normal person. He didn't want to drag attention to himself why did it always happen then?. No, he just needed to take the f*cking potion, that was all, a simple thing, he could do it, past events be damned.

He released his nails from his scalp, ignoring the fresh lining of red under them from unintentionally pushing too hard. Reaching towards the potion, he prepared to take it. Such a minuscule task to everyone around him seeming like a whole canyon he needed to cross, the bottom shrouded in the shadows of his unrelenting terror.

A fight that seemed so stupid to watch from the outside was being played out, a fight that was supposed to be easy but was bloated with trauma in his mind's eye. So minuscule compared to the world around him.

Everything he struggled with seemed so small, it made him feel worthless whenever he was unable to overcome them.

The thought made a chill, a shiver of pain that was hardly physical course through him. He forced on a blank mask to hide its effect.

Minniscule, simple, a foolish reaction. He knew it was foolish to everyone else but that didn't stop the bone-chilling terror that shot through him when he touched the bottle containing the potion. He hated it when his own logic didn't work against his feelings. He hated it.

Those observing would see him pause, see his breathing hitch for a heartbeat as thousands of chaotic, fear-driven thoughts swarmed the forefront of his mind.

Finally, he'd grab the potion in shaking hands, bringing it closer with the stiff movements of a rusted metal puppet. Face eerily blank, he paused again, stomach churning, heart pounding as it was held below his mouth. Everything was drowned out by the sound of blood rushing through his skull and cracked jaw.

He was standing on a mountain, about to fall over its edge.

The pause was too long, too obvious. A minuscule task, minuscule, why was it so hard?

His arm shuddered as if remembering to move again, he held the potion up to his lips, bile rising up in his throat in false anticipation of something far different than what came from that potion.

He poured it in, not even attempting to swallow, unable to commit to the mere action of swallowing.

It hit the back of his throat, then-

Pain shot through him, pain that wasn't supposed to be there yet was, pain summoned by memories of a time long past. Phantom pain which did not feel like a phantom of pain.

It burned his nerves, cascaded through his body, not tied to the effects of the potion but to bygone times. It shredded his very being as the hot brand of something was seared into the back of his throat, a hot iron brand with no physical properties, imprinted on him forever.

The liquid coated his tongue, engulfed it, he was paralyzed, he couldn't do anything- he was trapped, he couldn't breathe, couldn't react-

The small boy heaved as if struck by a sledgehammer, spitting up the potion that hadn't even made it down his esophagus, a glips of torment written on his features. He had half the mind to turn away from everyone before the nausea that had been plaguing him since he arrived finally brought with it a result that luckily did not land on his lap or someone else's shoes. It was not thick, or black, in fact, it was barely anything, the contents of a stomach that had not held any food for quite a time.

The minute amount of the potion that had made it past his throat made the Slytherin retch dryly. Whatever results, or lack of thereof, it gave went wholly unnoticed as a few more waves of the unprompted pain shook his frail-looking frame... then gradually faded back into memory.

The violent reaction ended with him slowly slumping back against the wall, lost in the haze of his aggravated migraine. Traces of tear tracts were largely absorbed by the makeshift bandages on his face, leaving in their wake only exhaustion and pounding soreness.

The boy's limp form shook with residual tremors, his eyes closed as he tried to ignore the lingering, familiar burning sensation infecting his throat. The vivid memories that prompted the reaction slowly faded, going back to lurking his mind until summoned again.

Drained, Selim remained eerily still, eyes stinging, jaw throbbing, muscles aching. He did not say anything, he did not want to say anything, he did not want to distract those around him, for his problems were... minuscule.

'They really are, he swears they are.'

Regular Text - English | Bolded Text - French | Bolded Black Text - Japanese
Interacting: @Selim Faust
Mentioning: @Vladimir Athanatos, @Piérre Marchonné, @Marion Davenport

Madeleine resisted the urge to glare at the boy who retorted in Japanese. That's exactly what she just said, isn't it? That he was reacting harshly because he was in pain. But she refrained from getting snippy, instead turning away and following Vlad's instructions to fetch a Skelegro potion from the cabinet. It made her question where in the world the school's nurse was. Sure, they'd only been here a few minutes, but it felt like far too many minutes without adult supervision. Especially given how injured the two - Selim and Marion - were. Should she offer to go get an adult? Maybe they shouldn't have let the other professor - Professor Galim - leave them. But back then, Maddie thought there had been a nurse here in the Hospital.

The twelve-year-old made quick work of locating the potion - she grabbed two, just in case. Since it was only the five of them in the room, she heard Vladimir's words loud and clear. He was angry with the green-costumed boy. He'd apparently thrown Marion to the ground. Vlad was using his house - Gryffindor, as she recalled from all the shouting in the last few minutes - to disparage his character. Maddie frowned at this, once again questioning what a big deal the Hogwarts houses were. Did Vlad really think everyone belonging to Gryffindor were evil? And - she presumed - that those of his own house, Ravenclaw, were all good? What about Selim's house - she had heard that Slytherins were the ones that everyone were wary of. Not that she immediately judged people on the Hogwarts house they were in. That seemed like such a silly notion. Madeleine didn't understand the house system at all, it seemed.

As she turned back around to face the room and not the medicine cabinet, the French girl wondered what Hogwarts house she would have been put into. Did it matter, though? If she had been a Gryffindor, did that mean Vladimir would have instantly disliked her? She was still frowning as she started making her way back across the room to Selim. The Gryffindor boy was defending himself, talking of not belonging in his house. But Maddie's thoughts had drifted to what Vladimir said about his curse - that it was the sort you died from. He was going to die?

The brunette paused walking back to Selim, though, when she noticed the girl on the floor waking up. Her brown eyes widened at the sight of the blonde spitting up dark bile. "Is she okay?" Maddie's voice was softer than she had intended, maybe barely audible to those in the room. She still felt so out of place in this whole thing, and found herself not feeling like she should be inputting. Not to mention that question sounded stupid from the moment it left her lips. Of course she wasn't okay. Marion looked incredibly sick, and not just from the throwing up black bile, which - ew, disgusting. Maddie looked away within moments, not wanting to see it.

Even though she was questioning Vladimir's judge of character, she didn't question that he cared for Marion. He seemed confident about how to help her, and Madeleine was only a second year at Beauxbatons with next-to-no healing expertise, so she didn't feel the need to intervene there. She would help with what she could, which was apparently fetching potions and convincing Selim to drink them.

"Here," Maddie said, holding out one of the potions to him. It seemed, though, that it was Vladimir's words that were getting through to him. She didn't need to say much, but she did watch the inner turmoil on his face as he contemplated taking the potion. She had no idea why it was so hard for him to grasp the concept - if he drank the potion, he would heal. She vaguely thought that Skelegro was the one that helped with bones, right? It's why Vladimir would have suggested it. So that jaw problem should disappear, along with any other bone-related issues, right? Maybe it would heal more than just those, even.

Maddie felt like he wouldn't appreciate being watched quite so closely, so she took a seat on the far end of the bed while Selim contemplated taking the potion. He was in the corner of her eye while she looked back at the other three huddled on the floor. The green-costumed boy was trying to comfort the blonde while Vladimir treated her.

Madeleine suddenly jumped when she heard an unexpected noise next to her. She looked as Selim seemed spit out the potion he had apparently begun to take. What- Her eyes widened as he seemed to convulse and go limp and slump against the wall. Why?

Given she was only a few steps away, she was sitting at Selim's side in a mere second. It was instinctual, to help when it was clearly needed. Vladimir and the other boy were focused on Marion, helping Selim was about the only useful thing she could do here. Fetching potions, eavesdropping, now genuinely trying to figure out a problem. This had been quite an eventful night for her, and it didn't seem like it would be ending anytime soon (though she was still desperately hoping an adult would appear with answers at any moment).

"Selim, you're alive, aren't you?" she asked, feeling silly but also feeling it necessary given the way he had just slumped against the wall. Her hand hovered in front of his face, and it was a moment before she realized what she herself was doing. Checking to see if he was breathing. The current of air she felt was reassuring, and she removed her hand from being so close. Vladimir's words earlier came to mind. Don't force him to take the potion. She was liable to get bitten or something. She didn't think Selim would actually try to bite her - would he? - but she still opted not to try and force feed him the potion, though she was so confident it would help him. The healing potion and the Skelegro. She had her second bottle of Skelegro still in her other hand, and she looked at it. Maybe-

"Selim, look. It's safe, I'll even drink it. Watch," and when he opened his eyes (OOC: permission gotten from Selim), Madeleine would tip a gulp of the Skelegro into her mouth. It was foul tasting, but she knew that healing potions wouldn't harm her. Although she grimaced at the taste, she would flex her arms and show him that she felt fine afterwards. "You'll feel so much better if you can drink this. Is it the taste? Do you actually need me to help you by pouring it? Is it the texture? The color? I could put it in a dark cup if you don't want to see it..." She didn't know how else to offer to help.

Piérre Marchonné, Selim Faust, & Aaron Jones (iNPC Madeline Nakamura)

The four of them were in this sort of tense standoff. Vladimir would have murdered Piérre where he stood had it not been for witnesses or so he honestly believed. He had been harboring intense animosity for his entire house since last spring when his best friend was burned alive. There was a pattern with that house, for theft, manipulation and murder. The events of this evening merely reinforced this sentiment in Vladimir's mind. Then too the Gryffindors that assaulted him were a lot like Marchonné in that they had this whole monologue about how they were the righteous ones while stealing you bag or tackling you to the ground. They never address the damage they did, always blame someone or something else. It was never their fault. A pride of lions in possession of even greater pride.

"I am being harsh because he is loud and I have a concussion, my head is pounding. I feel on the verge of vomiting and his yelling doesn't help in the slightest. His insistence is irritating on a deep level. I am not scorning him because of his sincerity but because of how he is acting on that sincerity. Which is poorly."

Selim complained. He was being difficult all over but Athanatos had no reason to dislike the boy, just find him frustrating. There was a potion for headaches as well. Potions for concussions. Potions for nausea. There were remedies for literally everything that ailed him if he would just put on his big boy pants and take a damned drink.

But he was not going to make the underclassman take the potion. He had the right to choose until he could not make choices anymore, then all Faust could do is hope that there was someone in his corner that would do right by him.

“If you do not like my house, I could not care less. I don't feel I belong there either.”

Vladimir did not like the boy's house. He did not like the boy either. Why would he? How could he? The boy was like the rest. A liar. A degenerate. A dangerous sociopath that had nearly gotten his Marion killed. Yes, his Marion. How could he not have a sense of possessiveness? She was alive because of him. He protected her. She needed him. She belonged to him as had Victor until these assholes screwed with his toys.

"Let me guess, you're the exception," his words were laced with venomous sarcasm. Marchonné was nothing special. He was not different. Did he really think some posturing as a 'good guy' was going to change his perception, erase what he had just done. He had thrown Marion off his broom and she was shattered on the floor. All his wailing and carrying on only served to piss him off. If did not help her. It sure as hell did not change how he was feeling about her.

He could feel his blood bubbling. Coming to a simmering boil. This rage he felt was almost blinding, coming easier and easier with time. These dangerous, violent impulses. His hand made a fist. He wanted to break--

No, this was not the way.

“I don't care. I'm not brave. I'm not tricky or sly. I'm not overtly intelligent. I don't belong in a crowd. None of these is where I belong."

And this was the reason why. People like him, people like Piérre Marchonné. People like Rafael D'Spacito... Gryffindors, like that girl that made a love-sick fool like Vic feel special. People that were too busy indulging their fantasies, wants, and mediocre obligations. They wanted to fight him, rob them, make things about themselves while his best friend burned. There was no reason in hell to trust him. If experience had taught him anything, it taught him that they, as in yes, Gryffindors -- were not going to stop until every last one of them were dead. Actually, no he did not believe that. He just believed that they would let them die, be directly responsible for their deaths because Gryffindors did whatever the hell they wanted and took whatever they felt they 'needed.' Not that they 'needed' anything. They just took what they wanted. Pursued whatever diversion suited their present fancy. Acted on impulse and it did not matter to them who they hurt. Sadly, it mattered to him.

So no, the Gryffindor's lamentations did not pull at his heartstrings. He was not going to play weekend therapist and talk about fragile feelings. Not that it mattered, Piérre had already moved on to playing therapist himself.

Whatever. Good in fact. Leave him and Mary alone...

“You're hurting too.”

The Gryffindor turned his attention to Faust. Meanwhile he dealt with Mary. The fall had really messed her up. Piérre had really messed her up and yet again he would be burdened with putting the pieces back together. He did resent her a bit for that, there was an intense guilt that resided in him for that secret sentiment. He was tired of always being needed. For their problems which only seemed to grow, to grow until there was no saving them. And he was no hero.

Yes, he was slowly growing to hate everything.

“Not just physically. It's why you're shouting and lashing out. I don't expect you to trust me, and I know you won't, but whatever happened, whatever made you believe this is how you have to act as or be... I'm sorry."

Pierre was going on about Selim. A fine reprieve still as he looked over at Maddie. Yes, Maddie his date. An unfortunate victim of his attention. It seemed that those that were close to him, even if it was for a single evening were destined to suffer. "So sorry Madeline," he really did not know her well enough to call her 'Maddie.' "I ruined your evening," and in truth he knew that he would. That was why he picked her, a seemingly nice girl. An ornament. A harmless one because he was worried that whoever took an interest in him from Hogwarts that it would be used against him. Like what happened to poor, sweet, stupid Mary. Yes, that was really what he thought of Marion, the perennial victim, too pretty and also too stupid for her own good. Always getting into trouble, trouble she should have avoided.

"You deserved a better evening," he admitted. One with someone else. She was a legitimately nice girl. Nothing but kind and helpful. It might have been because she had no clue what was going on. A kindness in the withholding of knowledge but it did not change his sentiments, his conclusion. For her sake he would be avoiding her from hereon before she got herself hurt for her associations, not that he expected her to write.

"I'm not lashing out of you because of my own dark past. I'm lashing out because you are very loud, and I have a f*cking concussion, or migraine at the least."

It would seem that the two of them were getting testy. Not that he wanted the Gryffindor back. Although with Marchonné, he had an uncanny ability to fail to read the room, it was amazing he was in one piece at all.

"This isn't pity. But whatever happened, you didn't deserve it.”

If it was not pity, then what was it. He made a point of reminding the boy of his pitiful state. He continued to push in spite of resistance. There was still a critically injured girl, a rather pissed off friend and a rather confused visitor all in the same room.

"And because your persistence is getting in the way of, you know, actually healing the girl who seemed to have shattered literally every bone in her body which happened because of some unsourced fall from your broom."

Selim pointed out the girl's critical state. It was easy to forget when a human becomes a fixture.

“The same extends to you. Neither of you deserved this; curse, paranoia, feeling the need to lash out. I am sorry this happened. That's all I have to say.”

A state of distress that would not be quelled with kind words, statements of affirmation. In truth Marchonné was a pretty stand-up guy, unfortunately he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He let the wrong girl onto the back of the broom. The jumped off even if she looked like and would subsequently claim that she slipped. A truth that Vladimir would believe over any protest made by the veritable stranger who belonged to a house that had a pattern of making his life hell.

“Marion! It's okay, it's okay! A friend of yours is here. I don't... I'm sorry for what happened, but you're gonna be okay, okay?"

Her hand ripped away from Marchonné's as Vladimir would have expected. Marion was not going to let the guy who tried to kill her hold her hand and soothe her when she regained consciousness.

"Merlin Mary," he exhaled. Audible relief. He would try to push the Gryffindor to the side none to gentle.

“C_calm down. It's alright. Everyone is here. You took a bad fall, but this guy gave you something and...”

"Leave her alone man, you've already done enough," he snapped. It seemed as if he was about to say something else when he stopped dead. The girl was retching. Retching blood. Retching darkness, not red but black. As his Ravenclaws would eventually come to learn at a future date when he spewed blood onto the floor post a devastating beating, what he vomited was distinctly red. Something even he would not know at the time as he saw the darkness evacuate from his friend.

“This... Is this normal?”

Piérre glanced at the upperclassmen. "Just some internal bleeding," he guessed but he was wrong. It was a logical presumption, after all his blood was black. The blood that was in the veins that he could see. Painful, throbbing appendages. A deep, visceral seeming pain. A tenderness in the flesh that overlaid those blackened vessels. A constant ache, unrelenting. He had no reason to think that the blood, the blood in her deeper vessels would be any different. Those that fed her viscera, her gut, her lungs.

A broken bone had likely punctured something. It would heel in short order when her bones knit back into place. There were potions to replace her lost blood. Yes, he could handle this. It was his stoic arrogance that was just as much of a problem as Marchonné's foolhardy want to be friends. this was not a situation to foster or develop relationships.

"Is she okay?"

Maddie asked. She did not look fine. Maddie was not wrong, Marion was far from fine. Black, like bile. Like old blood? There was a smell, that of rot. The petrification of blood had a distinctively 'ripe' stench. None of them were medical professionals. They would not be able to know if there was an actual medical reason for this symptomology but human anatomy was more a suggestion for wizards. With remedial spells and basic potions that can be used to rectify most diseases and injuries, they did not need to know much. An assessment was mostly used to determine if a potion or spell was needed and if another one was still necessary or not.

“I'll grab the bedpan just in case.”

The Gryffindor announced as he reached downward and obtained a bedpan from beneath the bed and held it in front of Marion.

“Do you need me to hold your hair back?”



Meanwhile Madeline was trying to coax a fox to eat a banana or some equally ridiculous combination that might result in her losing a finger or two if she was not careful. Selim was simply being obnoxious but at this point he was pretty sure that he was enjoying the attention of a pretty girl. Something Vladimir was doing until the world fell to shit yet again.

"Here."

She offered Selim a potion. Something to help his jaw, ameliorate his suffering, expedite his healing. It was simple, logical. If he drank the potion, he would heal.

A drink followed by more drama. Selim spat up the potion he had apparently begun to take. What- Her eyes widened as he seemed to convulse and go limp and slump against the wall.

"The potion does not do any of those things Faust," Vladimir announced without looking in his direction. He let out a sigh.

"Selim, you're alive, aren't you?"

Selim was alive, a healing potion no matter how badly she handed it over to him and no matter how inadequately he swallowed it would not murder the boy. He might win an award for his acting, but he was not going to die.

"Selim, look. It's safe, I'll even drink it. Watch."

Eyes open, Selim would see Madeleine would take a gulp of the Skelegro into her mouth. It was foul tasting, but no harm would come to her. A bit animated in her attempt, like trying to get a small child to eat spinach. *Flex*

"You'll feel so much better if you can drink this. Is it the taste? Do you actually need me to help you by pouring it? Is it the texture? The color? I could put it in a dark cup if you don't want to see it..."

A silly straw might be helpful but doubtful the nurses office stocked those.

Wakefulness was jarring, with a gulping gasp and an audible wheeze, the contents of her stomach would be evacuated. She was not the beauty pictured when inky filth spilled from her maw. A terrible retching noise that caused the thin girl to convulse violently. The black, thick fluid would splash in front of her. It was obvious in how she moved the numerous fractures, the way her limbs bowed unnaturally.

Yes, she was horrifically damaged by the fall. Who would believe that such a fragile girl would jump. Why would anyone allow themselves to suffer such grievous injuries? That would be an act of madness. Something that defied human nature. That defied logic and honey Vladimir was all about linear thought, the damn brilliant idiot.

Easy to read. Even easier to control.

"Vlad," she cried as mouthful of darkened rot evacuated her bone white lips into an extended bedpan. "It hurts so much," she gasped. "Help me, please."

She did not need to be a legillimens to know what he wanted. To know what he needed, he wore his sentiments on his face. He was not a schemer, not really. He was the sort of guy that thought he had a plan, basically a roadmap with the most direct path marked in pen. If he was feeling a bit daring, he might cut through a parking lot.

Her hand, yes broken and difficult to move she would muster the strength in spite of audible discomfort to reach out for the Ravenclaw. Her grip was ice cold, it always was. She felt like ice, the air around her was perpetually frigid. "I-I don't feel safe here," she complained as she looked past Vladimir towards the girl. Some little French thing, since when was -that- his type?

He was not supposed to be making new friends, friends with girls. What did that French girl have that she did not besides an active interest (possibly) in Vladimir? It was just a fling, something that would last a few weeks. Maybe they would be pen pals. He would forget about her in a few weeks time, maybe sooner. He had dropped that other dark-haired girl, Olivia or something wasn't it? He dropped her as soon as he say the girl's betrayal. Foreign girls that did not know any better were his only chance. It would be a bit funny if it was not so damned sad.

"I don't want to hurt no more," she coughed. "Bring me back to my room," not that he actually could. That whole entering Slytherin thing would make that hard. Also, her house was not too fond of him either. A little reminder with a journey -- that she needed him and that baby, she was the only friend that he had.