RE: Knives and Shadows PV

𝓕 I N N E G A Nx𝓒 O N N O R
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Knives and Shadows 1st of July 2024

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While the charm of the Hogwarts Express had waned somewhat over the years, he still enjoyed the steady Cuh-clack-cuh-clack sound as they picked up pace, he still marveled at the thick, rolling clouds of steam passing by their window, and he still loved sitting on the old and soft, plushy seats. Mere minutes after they'd departed, he'd kicked off his shoes, drawn up his legs and folded himself up into a very small ball pressed into the corner. For the longest while he participated in the ebb-and-flow of conversation, bemoaning his charms lessons, recounting tales of disastrous potions lessons, and enthusiastically sharing about the weeks he was about to spend on football camp in Spain. Then their conversation shifted to exams. For a while he nodded along, though it soon become obvious that he still had it easy and by extension, was not allowed much room to complain. The kind of stories Pericles and Evelynn shared about the many hours they spent studying for their exams made his skin crawl. How could anyone study for that long and not pass out? Was there even time to eat and drink and visit the loo? And what about Quidditch practice? There had to be some special exceptions for Quidditch players, right? Affording them some extra time, or maybe to allow retakes. Thankfully, he still had two years' worth of time to figure out a way to cheat his O.W.L.s. When the conversation shifted again, he reached down for his bag and fished out a copy of the Hogwarts Headliner that he'd packed at the last minute. He wasn't a particularly avid reader of the paper, though he occasionally checked in to keep up with the ongoings at school. One of the positives of the headliner was that there were usually plenty pictures and not too many big words. On this particular copy, a bold title covered nearly a quarter of the first page: Knives and Shadows Finally something more engaging than horoscopes or other such slop. He rested the paper on his legs and began to read. After just the first paragraph, his enthusiasm made way for a sinking feeling. He checked the date in the corner. It had been published in June, so not too long ago, but the ball had been in April. Had something been uncovered about the ball? He could scarcely imagine it, surely he would've heard about it! He could think of no reason for the headliner to cover April's events in June. He vaguely registered the movement in his periphery vision, a weight lifting off the seat, and then a new weight, slightly heavier, taking its place. He stole a wordless glance at Pericles, guessed the boy's reason for swapping seats, and angled himself toward the boy. The teenager seemed nice enough, and Rebecca had often sung his praises, but Finnegan hardly knew him and when you didn't know someone, you were supposed to leave a bit of space between yourself and the other. Maybe Pericles had missed the memo on that, or maybe the boy was just very eager to read. Either way, the teenager had scooted over quite close and leaned in to read, while Finnegan — in an attempt to accommodate — had turned his back toward the door and ended up sandwiched between the window and teenager. He said nothing of it though, and silently leaned against the teen's shoulder. Unable to see the hardening frown on Pericles' brow from how he was seated, Finnegan nevertheless registered the teen tensing up behind his back. Pericles seemed a lot more agitated about the article than he was, but why? The allegation throw at - he squinted at the paper to reread - Dealla Prince was a serious one and judging by the Ravenclaw's reaction, a false one? Despite both having been injured at the ball, he'd never really inquired about what had happened to Pericles Dralt exactly. In that regard, the article had been quite enlightening, filling in several blanks about what had else had transpired while he'd been watering the ground with his blood. If anything, the worst thing about the article was that it brought back visceral memories of the event. Without meaning to, he tensed a little and drew up even closer to Pericles. Of course he knew about the eye. Everyone knew about that. Which was exactly why he was surprised to note the heat in Pericles' voice and the a scoff of indignation that followed. Everyone at school had heard about what had happened. Rumors had spread like wildfire the day after, but all the murmuring, all the staring and pointing behind his back, all of it had wound down in due time. There was nothing in the article relating to the attack on him that he disagreed with. In fact, he was quite grateful that @Astra Norrick's name had been put to print for all to see. She deserved all the negative attention this would bring her way, and worse. It was beyond him why she hadn't been expelled yet. "T. Ruth? Never heard of her." he piped up. Then after a second or two of consideration, he realized the meaning of the name and snorted. "That's the kind of name someone uses who thinks they're being smart. Even I could come up with something better." He held the Hogwarts Headliner up over his head, offering it to Pericles to take and examine again, should he be so inclined. "Did you ever hear about the inheritance conspiracy?" He tilted his head back, resting it on Pericles' shoulder and watched the teen's upside-down face for a hint of recognition. "Apparently," he chuckled, "you and I are the bastard sons of a very wealthy wizard who passed away recently, his greedy brother wanted to claim the money, but all the money would have gone to us. So the brother, our beloved uncle, put a hit out on us, and that's why we were attacked." He sighed and moved his head back, choosing to gaze out the window for a while before his head turned to Rebecca and Evelynn. "What was that story again about how we were doing it for insurance money?" he asked Rebecca. "The way you told it, we could've made a lot of money." Secretly, he eyed Evelynn for a reaction too. She was probably relieved that nothing they had exchanged in the Gryffindor Locker Room had made it into the paper. The article's writer would have had a field day with all the feelings of crushing guilt that Evelynn had confessed to him. For his part, he was glad his moment of teary-eyed weakness had remained between himself and Evelynn, never to be spoken of again. @Pericles Dralt, @Rebecca Lark, @Evelynn Decipio

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Stamina 10 ✶ Evasion 10 ✶ Strength 2 ✶ Wisdom 4 ✶ Arcane Power 5 ✶ Accuracy 17

⋖ 01/JUL/2024 | ENGLISH [#715380] | FRENCH [#b654a9] ⋗
INTERACTIONS @Pericles Dralt @Finnegan Connor | MENTIONING @Rebecca Lark
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The sudden insistence to switch seats just so Pericles could read over Mr. Connor's shoulder had been met with sulkiness. By that time, Evelynn had been good and well invested in book on arithmatics, pancil and scratchpad in hand to work through sample problems. It wasn't without a bit of challenge that the two of them were able to dance around each other in the confined compartment in order to swap places, and when they did, Evelynn had sunk into her new spot, visibly ruffling as she tried to regain the same balanced set up and ignore the various scoffs and reactive sounds. Given the escalation of exclamations, however, Evelynn could only sigh, straighten, and recline back against her seat to temporarily abandon her work, mathematical thought-train left to derail and crash in a smoking heap.

It look all of a second to identify the source of the boys' mutual chagrin. "Knives and Shadows?" she queried, only vaguely putting in effort to veil the irritation to the interruption of sacred silence. "Had you not read it when we published?" A brow quirked, eyeing Pericles with some amount of scepticism. He was a member of the Headliner's staff. Given his proclivities with investigations, she had assumed he would have kept himself as informed of the school's one offical source of news as she always had. As far as she could tell, it was the front-page article of the most recent Headliner edition about which they were speaking.

"It was an anonymous submission," she answered belatedly to the question of who had written it. Shrugging a brow, Evelynn went on, "I thought the paper had done away with uncredible authorship, but I suppose that was when Stavrou was still at the helm." Evidently, Evelynn's reaction to the article was not quite so visceral, perhaps owed to having the privilege of not being a named victim in its contents. Or perhaps owed to having an intimate understanding and acceptance of the nature of journalism. Either way, the signs of disquiet displayed before her went initially unnoticed as she tried to settle back into her studies. Mention of a familiar would name would lay to rest any such plans for the foreseeable future.

At the mention of T. Ruth, Evelynn's gaze flicked back to the pair across the compartment, hands settling one over the other atop her text. "You were in the hall during the Headliner incineration," came a reminder directed to the ex-prefect. "One of the students claimed authorship of the article." Evelynn kept her expression carefully neutral, far more practiced at the game of self-control than she'd been during the fiasco when White and Black had loudly barged into the Great Hall during mealtime to burn a pile of Headliner articles in protest and engaged in a heated back and forth. For the best, too, otherwise Connor's jab at the penname might have drawn a look of consternation. As the memory returned, she recalled how Pericles had been among those present, though took his leave early into the exchange to sly after Stavrou to check on the Headquarters. "I have not seen the girl around for some time," Evelynn continued with an expression that suggested certain doubt, "And the tone is entirely dissimilar."

She fell silent after that, content to allow Mr. Connor to continue on questioning if they'd heard about the inheritance conspiracy regarding the double attack; then further changing the subject as he went on to turn to Miss Lark and bring up what sounded like brainstorming money-making scams. Evelynn's gaze flickered between the two boys, interest in the topic piqued for better or worse, but hesitant to fully engage in conversation. Mention of the T. Ruth articles had touched on a spot of insecurity she had allowed herself to believe was long forgotten. It was only in that moment, really, that she was reminded how invested Pericles had been as a foil to those writings. He'd conducted interviews and written counter-arguments, and had rarely seemed so virile during his previous time as a writer as when he was on the case to dismantle the mysterious journalist. It was a topic that had never been raised since they'd started spending regular amounts of time together. Evelynn would have sooner kept it that way, discomfort cloaking itself about her.

⋄ Banner made by Ulysses Drake ⋄
⋄ July 1st, 2024 | Hogwarts Express ⋄
⋄ Interactions: @Pericles Dralt, @Evelynn Decipio, and @Finnegan Connor | Mentions: None ⋄

𝓦hen the dragon has been slayed and the village saved, and you approach the townspeople only to be told that far deadlier monsters lurk just outside your field of view, where ought you to point your sword? Her first year exams were over and done with, for better or worse. It was anticlimatic, in a way, to have spent so many miserable months worrying over them, only to find herself unable to care one way or the other whether or not she'd passed them in the wake of everything else that had been endured this year. She had no idea if her knowledge of the course material would be enough to outweigh her miserable performances in the practical portions, but what was the worst thing that could happen? Getting kicked out of school? At this point, that would feel like a mercy. Certainly it would up her life expectancy, at the very least.

She'd always been predisposed to creature comforts: warm rays of sun dancing on her skin, sweaters bigger than her body, or hot tea after a long day. Having most of her favorite people in the same small train compartment satisfied that same itch, with everyone where she could see them, and all of their chatter and laughter filling up the space, a font of emotional warmth. Like a garden snake, she wanted to coil herself up and bask in the rays of it, allowing the heat to seep past her skin and deep into her bones.

She sat in her default position, perched on the train bench with her knees pulled up to her chest, forming a makeshift mountain range that Crumb was more than happy to climb up and down at her leisure. Every so often, she'd settle on the peaks that were Bex's knees and poke her nose up curiously towards the window as Bex explained to her all the things they could see outside of the glass. Across from them, Finn jocosely volleyed one conversational topic after another towards the group, Bex's favorite of which was his impending trip to Spain. She was jealous enough of his globe-trotting future plans that she had seriously considered trying to fold herself up into his luggage and follow after him.

Where once the mere mention of schoolwork and exams could have sent her into an anxiety spiral, now the subject elicited no more than stark apathy. When asked she'd how she thought her own exams had gone, she'd merely shrugged and replied, "I tried."

When Finn pulled out the Headliner, she'd hardly noticed, more focused on the shuffling of limbs and muttered curses that were brought along with it. Evelynn looked thoroughly put out, whereas, in contrast, Finnegan and Pericles looked especially cozy. She was gesturing animatedly out the window, explaining the concept of cows to Crumb when the first blow landed. She should've learned by now not to let down her guard so easily, but on this lazy, primeval day of summer she'd allowed herself to forget the importance of vigilance, even on such friendly shores as these.

"Who.... who wrote this?"

"Who wrote what?" Was her immediate answer, foolishly assuming that he perhaps meant A Brief History of Taylor Swift or Butterbeer Pot de Crème.

"What are they on about, threatening Dee? And Jack, who's... well...." With a sickening lurch, Bex realized that the beige-haired boy was referring to her article, one that, in all her endless wisdom, she genuinely assumed that no one of importance would ever read. She suddenly had a vested interest in the book-club-cum-cuddling session that Pear and Finn had taken to on the other side of the compartment.

While it had certainly been naive to have never even considered that either of the friends she'd name-dropped in the article would ever read it, in her defense, she was a junior reporter. She'd written it as an exorcism, an attempt to put her loud and crowding thoughts to paper so she could finally sleep again, and had assumed that the editors would find it trite and rambling and stick it somewhere in the back, if they deigned to publish it at all. She hadn't thought to check, and as she'd submitted it anonymously, certainly no one had thought to tell her, and as such heard the tell-tale kettle-whistling noise start to shriek in her brain as she came to terms with the reality that they'd not only published her piece, but they'd gone and plastered it across the front page.

"It was an anonymous submission," Evelynn replied, saving Bex from trying to have to speak through the cotton in her mouth, "I thought the paper had done away with uncredible authorship, but I suppose that was when Stavrou was still at the helm." If Bex wasn't so terrified, she might have been more inclined to speak up in her own defense, as there was hardly a more credible author than one with a firsthand account of the event in question. As it was, though, the thunderous look on Pericles' face had her scrambling to fish her own copy of the Headliner out from where she'd unceremoniously stuffed it into her bag so that she'd at least have something to hide her face in. In her mad rush, poor Crumb was rudely ejected from her throne atop Bex's knees and onto the seat cushion below, and began letting out a loud series of thoroughly miffed clicks in an effort to ensure that Bex understood exactly how she felt about the whole thing.

From behind her self-inflicted newspaper prison where she was pretending to read, Bex listened as the other occupants continued to debate the identity of the author-among-them.

"I haven't seen an anonymous article this instagatory since T. Ruth. Never did determine who she was."

"T. Ruth? Never heard of her. That's the kind of name someone uses who thinks they're being smart. Even I could come up with something better."

"You were in the hall during the Headliner incineration," Evelynn directed towards Pericles. "One of the students claimed authorship of the article."

"Who's T. Ruth?" Bex asked, struggling to follow along the course this conversation had taken. "And, wait- The Headliner was incinerated?" Did her voice sound as high-pitched to everyone else as it did to her own ears? She'd been on the Headliner staff for a good half year or so now, though, and she'd never once heard the name T. Ruth thrown around. If she was still on the writing staff, then she was certainly doing a very poor job of meeting her deadlines.

"Maybe she's back at it, only... she would have used her penname. Or would she?" Yes, Bex thought, let them divert blame onto someone else. Desperately, she wished she was even a little bit better at lying. She'd never had the knack for it; she was the bludger in an antique shop, all blunt force and battering honesty, lacking even the most nascent sense of guile.

"Maybe T. Ruth is, uh, undercover?" She may as well just throw herself from the Express window now, and save herself the trouble.

It was Finnegan, her knight in shining larceny, that threw her the life raft she needed to stay afloat.

Bex, eager to hopefully transfer everyone's attention onto the outlandish rumor, obediently began her re-telling of it. "Supposedly you both arranged the whole thing, and if it had worked you were planning to fake your own deaths and flee to Latvia with the hit money, the whole nine yards. Then, when your uncle would try to claim your inheritances, BAM! Your solicitor would come forward with proof that you were both still alive, and you'd have made off with both sets of cash. The real twist, though, was that you also had a secret bastard sister who you'd put as your insurance beneficiary, and who'd split the payout with you once she'd collected it. You'd have made millions. God, I wish that was real." Honestly, what had she even been thinking? She should have just written a Headliner article about that.

@Rebecca Lark | @Finnegan Connor | @Evelynn Decipio | @Dealla Prince

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	When Eve asked why Pericles hadn't read the paper, he answered without a grain of guilt: "I was too absorbed with O.W.L.s and recovery time to read the final print last week. Besides, it's often gossip and recipes this time of year." The bird had long since ceased to look for T. Ruth, yet the article- charged with a certain someone's inner turmoil- stoked old embers. This author knew an intimate details about his and Finn's fates. Why oughtn't they know the writer in return? A brief distraction came and went in the form of Crumb, whose distressed squeaks earned a sympathetic glance as he pointed out to Bex, "You seem to have misplaced your long rat." Pericles had been lured from a state of sloth by the promise of a puzzle, from drowsy-eyed and seldom speaking to alert and analyzing. "One of the students claimed authorship of the article," Eve tried to assuage. "Falsely," Peri returned with confidence, still skimming the front page. He had already looked into that one. "She was never in the office before nor after the T. Ruth publications. Likely an instigator, or someone looking for their share of attention in the heat of the moment." Bex and Finn each voiced their unfamiliarity of the old alias, with the latter tacking on a teasing "That's the kind of name someone uses who thinks they're being smart. Even I could come up with something better." Peri cast a wry half-smirk to his side, saying "I thought it was at least a little clever. More clever than their message, anyhow." Context was in order, and as always for better or worse, he was happy to provide it. "She- if Ruth was a she- wrote an inflammatory article after a dhampir attack. Called them 'devils' and 'blood suckers'- which is considered highly derogative, mind," Peri emphasized as if teaching the two a naughty word they ought never repeat. "'Ruth' even listed all the ways by which to identify dhampir students, alongside a list of their weaknesses. Fearmongering that somehow slipped into publication. The author tried to justify it as 'spreading information' the next article over, with an apology for the insults padded in 'buts'." A playful squint slid to Becca across the way, preemptively dissuading the repetition of those last three words. His father always said that an apology framed in justification was an excuse, though it hadn't stopped dad from doing the same sometimes. He clarified the fire in short: "It goaded a dhampir and his girlfriend into breaking down the office door and burning a heap of our newspapers. They claimed it was to create controversy, to 'get people talking'. If that was the case, what would be the topic of discussion this time...?" His gaze strayed back to parchment. An arm slipped past Finn, lightly propping an elbow to his shoulder as he prodded the black mark where an author's name ought to be. "The tone is different," he agreed with Eve, "but then again, it's been four years. It was matter-of-fact before. It sounds sardonic now. The author seems exasperated, almost as if they were there... or otherwise had a grudge against Warren. They speak to him." I applaud your ingenuity, Mr. Warren, the article sniped. Are you proud of your strength and valour, Mr. Warren? "Only, they're words he'll never read. So who are they for? Is 'anonymous' capitalizing on violence to fuel outrage against him? Or maybe against the dances themselves." Take care, should you be brave or stupid enough to attend the next one. How had T. Ruth closed their first article? Something about bringing a perpetrator to justice. Had she witnessed the dhampir attack that inspired the article firsthand, driven to write out of fear? Had this 'anonymous' been at the ball, driven to write in such a similarly impassioned state? "Its aim could be to frighten the audience from attending.... Yet if that was the intent, why name names?" The T. Ruth article had been vague, even down to the identity of the victim. Pericles realized the source of his unease as he admitted it aloud, muttering in afterthought. "Perhaps to make the disaster more personal. Outrage sells... T. Ruth knew that, too. I don't care for seeing mine in the paper though. Feels as if I'm being watched by someone I can't see." "Did you ever hear about the inheritance conspiracy?" It was the perfect distraction from Peri's perturbing speculations. His sharp eye dulled for one dubious and lidded, fascination fading, the end of near-whispered ravings as old dots were connected to new. The lone article wasn't enough to inspire an all-out investigation, but its future twin would do the trick. He took the paper for one final look-over once Finn offered it, mindful not to budge the arm being leaned against. The eagle hated to perch on a jostling shoulder and wouldn't subject him to the same. Finn's upside-down face was given answer in the form of a questioning quirk of the eyebrow. He looked tiredly from Gryff to Birdling as each chimed in on the scandalously inventive story. "I like that one," he drawled dryly at the end. "It's creative. Better than the one where Jack Warren meant to use us as blood sacrifices to hags, in exchange for a love potion which would win back Dee." A slow sigh indicated the last of his short-lived hyperfixation was dwindling. The article had brought T. Ruth back from the graveyard of memory, however, and set tinder for its twin to set alight. There was a hollowness to his tenor as he surmised "Everyone knows the truth now, I suppose. Or a shadow of it. He was a victim to that thing in his head." Pericles licked a thumb and turned the page. "We'll be coming back to Hogwarts, but he won't."
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⋖ 01/JUL/2024 | ENGLISH [#715380] | FRENCH [#b654a9] ⋗
INTERACTIONS @Rebecca Lark @Pericles Dralt @Finnegan Connor | MENTIONING n/a
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"Who's T. Ruth?"

"An old Headliner author who either has not written or has not been published in several years," Evelynn explained off-handedly.

"And, wait- The Headliner was incinerated?"

"Yes and no--that story is a bit involved. I can explain another time," Evelynn added quietly, trying to keep herself from sounding too eager to put this particular topic to bed.

"Maybe T. Ruth is, uh, undercover?"

"Doubtful," came the swift dismissal.

Curiosity was a useful but dangerous character trait, especially when wielded towards paths best left undisturbed. Not wanting to have Becca feel unheard and risk repeated questions at elevated volumes, Evelynn was quick to address any passing query with a clipped remark, like a mother grown used to the automatic response of humoring the incessant questioning of her toddler child. Not that it really mattered. Her erudite counterpart seemed more than keen to elaborate on the subject, and quick to counter Evelynn's attempt to pass the identity of T. Ruth conveniently off on that one student who'd spoken out during the burning. His words bit uncomfortably. Whatever fleeting satisfaction she may have had as Pericles quite unintentionally commended her with the clever pun of a name was swiftly squashed when he immediately followed up by insulting the content of her creations. The corner of her mouth twitched. Shoulders rose with a prolonged inhalation as he went on to cite some of the words and phrases that had been used, her gaze redirecting out the window in an effort to let them roll over her as easily as the hills rolled past.

It wasn't as easy as that, though.

The intentions of the first article really had been genuinely good. She had no idea there were students that weren't entirely human. The first few months of her exposure to the magical world had been consumed by giants infiltrating a dance to attack, and vampires in the halls at night leaving students bleeding near to death. How was she to know they weren't just monsters gaining access to the halls? She wanted to warn the student body. She wanted to spread awareness to those like her whose entire lives had spoken of such creatures merely as myth. She wanted to be able to protect herself from very real threats and help others do the same. She had thought the Headliner to be the best way to do that, and the only way she'd be able to get it published was to impress Severin, which was exactly what the dramatic journalistic approach had done. She'd kept it anonymous because she genuinely thought that doing anything else would mean being hunted down. She hadn't known anything else at the time.

That was never spoken of, however, nor even made a consideration, despite apologies and subsequent articles being depleted of inflammatory speech. People only seemed to remember the worst, and in doing so discarded everything else that could possibly be valuable or redemptive. She was used to the insults and the misinterpretations. She was resigned to her efforts being considered nothing more than a cry for attention, and a pathetically bigoted one at that. But that didn't mean it didn't bother her. It hurt all the more to hear it come directly from the Eagle's beak. Nails pressed sharply into her palms, fists pushing into her legs where she sat. She kept silent for a while, not trusting herself not to slip up and say something she wished she could take back, feigning disinterest for the boys' continued conversation, and all the while feeling talons tighten at her throat. She wanted to explain herself, to make their compartment snow as she shredded the papers into a thousand tiny papers, to shout about the hypocrisy of his own discrimination and refusal to believe the authenticity of the rationalizations. She wanted to spite him for painting her--however unintentionally--as some Machiavellian entity. So she did none of that, focusing all her attention on remaining as still as possible, all the while winding tighter within her shell of composure.

Even when Becca's fantastical imagination had turned to clamoring on about elaborate and increasingly ridiculous investment ploys, Evelynn could barely move. Her shoulders rose and fell in a controlled rhythm, an effort to calm herself with meditative breathing. And it worked. Slowly, but surely, she felt the tension in her frame ease. Shoulders fell, arms relaxed, and fingers were able to open, rubbing gingerly against each other, their pads drawing abstract designs against the textured fabric of her trousers for continued distraction stimulation. She swallowed, and eventually turned her attention inward again, listening idly to the tail-end of conspiratory talk, the white noise of Finnegan's repetitive droning as he pointed out the various passing "sights", and the fate of Jack Warren--another topic that still bothered her. So many loose ends with that particular conclusion. She doubted now that she would ever discover anything about the Key of Solomon, or the contents of the precious journal he guarded so closely. With nothing really to say, and calm enough to return to her prior engagement, she dropped her attention to her formulas. Or at least that had been the plan, but the rapid movement of Finnegan swiping away her notebook put a finite end to that notion.

"I would like that back, Mr. Connor," she stated calmly, extending a hand towards him and fixing him with what would no doubt be a rather familiar look of displeasure.

Apparently proximity with eagles would bestow upon him a false sense of bravado, however, the boy ignoring her--very reasonable and patient--request in favour of poking the lion. Climbing to his feet atop the seat cushions to fly above whatever swipes of her hand he thought might be inbound. The irritation returned in crashing waves, self-control unbinding itself like ropes hastily thrown overboard. "Now," she demanded as he began his stand-up performance to read a fabricated diary entry, her expression void of amusement. Shadowed anger coiled behind her eyes, unbridled emotion breaking through the tenuous barricade she'd only recently constructed.

He would get as far as "deeply deeply in love with---" before she had lurched to her feet, left fingers pressing the quick release lever at her wrist to launch her wand from the spring-loaded bracer she always kept hidden beneath her sleeve. Her wand was already pointed at him when she shouted, "FURRITAS!", a blinding flash of orange striking the boy squarely in the chest. As he reduced in size and shape to resemble the very ferret he'd recently been mocking, Evelynn snatched the notebook from the air before it fell, turned on her heel to open and step through the compartment door, and slam it behind her, with every intention to find a quiet corner to calm down.

Finnegan had flown too close to the sun. She left Pericles to deal with the aftermath.

Reducio

Leaving the thread unless otherwise interrupted.

|@Rebecca Lark | @Finnegan Connor | @Evelynn Decipio |

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	"They shouldn't let half-breeds attend, it's too dangerous." The stance was uttered with ease, as if Finnegan was repeating the sort of thing considered common sense. For an instant, Pericles' face fell, lips forming a crooked line as his eye darted into a sidelong stare. He breathed a reprimanding "Finn," the scold softened by surprise. There were a great many things he could have said- about his father, about his sister- yet the words remained coiled in his chest. Finn was young, and muggle-born. Maybe T. Ruth had been, too. Maybe they just hadn't known any better. Rather than opt for a lecture, Pear pivoted, hiding behind faux pout and tease. "How do you know I'm not a dhampir?" The Ravenclaw leaned over, shoulder pressing against the Gryffindor's, squinting down his nose in his best attempt at looming. The impression lasted a matter of seconds, then he settled against his seat with a huff of tuneless laughter. An easy smile sprang up only to dim as he stared off into the hall. No one else seemed especially interested in some old anonymous article, which the rest of the school was content to let fade into obscurity. Finn looked like he would rather be watching paint dry, or in this case, counting trees. Even Eve was clearly disinterested, staring out the window in silence instead of engaging with their typically stimulating tete-a-tete. Yet Pericles wouldn't let a lack of audience discourage him. He couldn't change what had happened, saw no opportunity to set things right, and so he occupied himself with this inconsequential fixation. It offered a lesser sense that he had control over something, whether or not he really cared who the author was. The self-imposed investigation served as an adequate distraction. He rambled his findings, as he was wont to do in comfortable company, and the rest were content to let him tire himself out. At least, such was true until someone locked in on a more interesting piece of reading material. "I would like that back, Mr. Connor." Without looking up from the newspaper, Pericles scooted further away from Finnegan. "Dear diary, my name is Evelynn Decipio. I am an old woman trapped in a teenager's body. My hobbies are: telling Pericles Dralt he is wrong-" a dry snort sounded from behind the article "-and pretending I'm not actually deeply, deeply in love, with-" "FURRITAS!" As the cabin illuminated with an orange flash, the alumni duellist's reflexes kicked in: he ingloriously flung up the newspaper to shield himself. Peri peered over the top of it with a shocked "Eve" to the tune of the same mock reprimand he'd given Finn, only for her to barge from the compartment. Peri's face fell into one of determination as he stood to give chase, yet the door to slammed in her wake, missing the tip of his Grecian nose by a hair. He yanked it open and leaned his his head out, forlorn voice carrying fruitlessly down the hall. "Eeeve...." Honestly. What was so enraging about a bit of play? He was starting to perceive the girl as having a wicked temper, one that could spark as fast as a cat could swat. Chest heaving a sigh of disappointment, Pericles slid the compartment shut, muttering "She'll come around once she's cooled off." The observation was an attempt at assuaging his company, but more so himself. He turned to take in the scene, frowning down at the ferret in Finnegan's place. A twitch of the eyebrow- one of those muted micro expressions- hinted he found the situation at least a little funny. "Now you're a long rat. Do you... want me to change you back?" Frankly, Finn seemed delighted with his animal state. The animagus could empathize. He left him to scamper about until the transfiguration wore off or their stop arrived (as tempting as it might have been to hand Finnegan's parent a ferret, Pear wasn't sure how humorous a muggle might find it). The wizard was left to steep in his thoughts, parallels between anonymous authors traded in favor of trying to pin what set off Eve, but when both paths proved equally futile, his thoughts turned towards summer camp.
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Exiting thread