Before The Ball Drops PV FINNEGAN CONNER DNI Closed

Draven’s brows knit together as he glanced beside him. “What,” he asked, amusement colouring the teenager’s voice. “Do they have nothing more interesting to talk about?” It was odd, really. That people saw him in the corner of their classrooms, tucked away as far into the shadows as he could go, and they still had things to say. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what.

Sliding a second cigarette out of its pack, Draven lit it. He was steadier this time. Less in danger of dropping the lighter. “I think the actual Dhamphyrs here would be rather insulted,” he pointed out, taking a drag. “I don’t suppose being compared to me counts as a compliment, really.”

It was bloody cold, wasn’t it. Draven blinked, noticing for the first time the way his legs had gone numb from the stone floor. Holding on to the wall, he climbed to his feet unsteadily. He couldn’t do much more than that. The classroom they’d come from was a tad warmer, but Draven doubted he’d receive a pleasant welcome if he returned smelling like cigarette smoke.

“I know,” he grimaced. “I’ve been trying to shower for ages.” He’d walk into the bathroom at 3 in the morning, stand before the shower stalls and try and talk himself into taking his clothes off. He’d visualize it step by step, pulling the shirt over his head and sliding out of his trousers. Running his hands over the bone protruding from his hips, across his ribs. Pictured the water streaming over his body. And he’d always leave before he could even toe off his shoes.

He didn’t have the nerve for it. Didn’t have the guts to stand in a public room, just him, the water, and his skin, separated from the outside world by a thin curtain. One he couldn’t lock. Though, could you really properly lock anything at Hogwarts?

“I’m-“ he swallowed. Poverty and pride didn’t mix. They never had, never would, and if there was anything Draven Mirador had learned how to do, it was how to shut the fuck up. Finn was offering him an out. A hand up out of the hole he didn’t know how he’d managed to dig himself.

And he’d be stupid not to take it.

“I’d really appreciate that, actually.”

🅵 I N N E G A Nxx🅲 O N N O R
xxxGRYFFINDOR SECOND YEAR POTIONS CLASSROOM

Before the ball drops TBD of X 2024

xx

Finnegan shrugged at Draven's rhetorical question but perked up at the older boy's self-deprecating remark. "Being compared to you is more than they deserve. They shouldn't even—" He clamped his mouth shut, grimacing as the words nearly slipped out. "Never mind, forget I said anything." It was too early to gauge if Draven shared his disdain for half-breeds, and Finnegan was keen on staying in his good graces. When Draven accepted his offer, a surge of pride swelled in Finnegan's chest. Getting through to the older boy using sheer, blunt force had seemed risky, but now it felt like he’d made some progress. As he brushed the dust from his knees, he gave his shoes a quick, cursory check, still mulling over Draven's strange admission. It wasn’t until he glanced at Draven again, offering a hand to help him up, that the oddness of it struck him. What's there to try about taking a shower? Out of all the things one could try and fail at when attending a school for Witchcraft and Wizardry, washing didn't seem like it even belonged on the list. "Come on," he said, trying to sound casual despite his eagerness to get moving. "Let's get you sorted then. We won't need long." Not that he minded—dragging out their time together beat an hour and a half of Potions by a mile. As they walked through the nearly empty corridors of Hogwarts, Finnegan stayed slightly ahead of Draven. It felt strange leading someone older and taller, especially since Draven probably knew the way better than he did. But he had made the offer, and the Fat Lady wasn't going to let Draven through anyway. The storm outside raged on, its winds howling as rain lashed against the windows, rendering the castle's air damp and cold. By the time they reached Gryffindor Tower, Finnegan motioned for Draven to wait outside. "Citrus," he told the Fat Lady, who regarded him with half-lidded eyes, trying unsuccessfully to hide a bottle of wine behind the edge of her frame. Silently, the portrait swung open. "Hang tight," Finnegan called over his shoulder before disappearing into the Gryffindor common room. He returned a few minutes later, his eyes and the bridge of his nose barely visible behind a small stack of clothes. Tilting his head sideways, he indicated a small, nearby hallway that offered a bit more privacy. "No one saw me," he said, his voice low. "The place is deserted—it's wonderful. You should pass out in class more often, I mean—" He averted his gaze, quickly muttering an apology. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—I didn’t mean that..." Best to simply move on, he thought. He held out the pile of clothes for Draven to browse like some kind of peace offering. "Mum's a bit of a tidy freak, so she packs everything with tons of those Muggle dryer sheets. You can practically smell them through the bag." The scent of fresh linen and artificial lavender wafted up as he spoke. The pile included a cloak, a black robe, a dark pair of jeans, a soft grey hoodie, a handful of baggy shirts, and a large, bright red towel dotted with little yellow stars. "These are all a bit big for me, so you can have them if you want. I don't care." But his indifference was short-lived. Even on the way to Gryffindor Tower, his eyes had betrayed him, constantly darting to the crumpled box of cigarettes Draven kept. "Hey," he began, trying to sound nonchalant, "would you mind if I—can I have another one of those?" Cigarettes for clothes. With a little luck, it would seem like a fair trade to Draven Mirador.

xx

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

@Draven Mirador

The boy had returned with a stack of clothes and a bit of a nervous edge to him. He kept glancing towards Draven, words sitting on the tip of his tongue but not quite spilling over. He held the fabric with loose hands, the smaller kid's eyes darting to the pack of cigarettes peeking out from Draven's back pocket.

Ah.

The older boy released a breath, letting the knot in his chest loosen. So there would be a trade. Though...Draven chewed on the inside of his cheek, regarding Fin. He wasn't sure it was a trade he should make.

He was older.

He should have known better.

He should have been better.

But at the end of the day, Draven Maxwell Mirador was, had always been, and would always be a piece of shit.

Sliding the pack out of his pocket, the older student made to hand it over along with the lighter. "This stuff is nasty," he said, a strange note to his voice. "Smells bad, looks bad. It's embarrassing, having to take a break every hour to go suck on one of these." And yet he was willingly giving Fin the pack anyway.

His grip on it tried to tighten at the last moment. Because he saw Fin. He saw him now, with the vigor of youth coursing through his veins. His body was healthy, his mind was clear. His lungs were free of smog. His heart still beat the way it was supposed to. His brain was whole, free from the addiction that plagued Draven's every waking thought.

Draven Maxwell Mirador had been, was, and would always be, a piece of shit. He was a self serving prick who took what he was given and never gave anything back. He was the kid you looked at like something you'd scrape of the bottom of your shoe, messy and disheveled, dysfunctional on the best of days, volatile on the worst.

"No."

He dropped the pack back in his pocket.

"I shouldn't have given you the first one either."

There was a finality to his tone, a book that had opened briefly slamming shut before Finnigan's eyes. He didn't need brownie points with the younger kid. Somebody else could be the 'cool' older student who wrecked Finnegan's life for a little social clout.

"If you plan to live past your 20s, don't start this shit. Don't touch it. Don't look at it. Don't smell it. It's nasty, and you're nasty if you smoke it."

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Draven shook his head. "I don't want the clothes. Or- to talk to you, actually." Fin was better than this. He was better than Draven, and he was better than trading the clothes his mother had lovingly packed him, smelling of detergent and drier sheets, picked out specifically for her kid. And even if he wasn't-

Draven wouldn't enable him. He wouldn't be the turning point in someone else's life, wouldn't be the beginning of a derailment.

"Thanks," he said, rolling his shoulders back. "For being nice to me. For getting me out of the class, and for offering to help. It-" he swallowed. It had made him feel human again. At least for a little bit. "You're a good kid Fin. Don't fuck this up."