Study of Wolfsbane Closed

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The Library—a river of knowledge any endearing Hogwarts student was free to dive into, as-long as their curiosity didn't lead them down to the Restricted Section. Oliver had found the tranquil silence and order of the library to be most comforting. Some days, when Oliver is drilled into a book revising the lessons he had missed last year, he could even forget, if only for a while, the secret of what he truly was.

The thought circled in Oliver’s eager mind as he stepped through the grand, welcoming arches of the library entrance. The long, winding halls of shelves stretched before him, forming a structured labyrinth with walls of books. Volumes would occasionally shake loose from their shelves, hovering in midair, before gliding to new destinations across the library. Some flew to eager senior students who had summoned them, while others drifted towards different sections, soaring overhead multiple students.

The crisp flipping of vintage pages filled Oliver's ears, bringing a wide grin to his already excited face, Oliver had one spot of the library he enjoyed more than most, and it wasn't just because it was quiet, it was because he was surrounded by books he had procured in his years at Hogwarts as the "best potion textbooks", or rather, the best he could comprehend..

Oliver strolled into a corner of library, twisting between layers of bookshelves to reach a far-away corner from the Entrance, it was an isle designated to Potions, an art Oliver was god-awful at, requiring focus and memory, both which Oliver barely had after a full moon, it was the one subject Oliver needed to study the most of all. Oliver travelled between all the shelves, turning his head over the corner, as he rounded the final shelf, his eyes eagerly searched for the familiar, old oak chairs and table surrounded by his beloved potion books.

His gleeful grin faded, replaced by an expression of utter confusion. A younger student stood in his spot, shoving several cherished potions books onto the floor without a hint of care, tearing open a large, modern textbook. Oliver’s heart sank as he watched from the corner, a young man's eyes darted around the page, his finger pressing deeply into the heading of the book's pages. He heard parts of what the man spat to himself 'That's it?' and 'Just calms the monster...'

Oliver stood frozen, appalled by the sight yet equally, intrigued. What on earth was this first-year doing with such an advanced textbook? Oliver recognised it instantly, having once attempted to read it himself. The first few pages alone had been leagues above his already struggling grasp of potion-making.

Just as the first-year stretched out an arm for another book, Oliver slipped out from his hiding spot with a sigh, cooly striding over to the young wizard. He knelt down to gather the fallen books, which lay scattered from the boy’s careless rummaging. As he picked up one of the smaller novels, he flipped it over to examine the cover.

"Advanced Potion of the Modern Era… Volume II,"

He muttered, raising an eyebrow. This was not light reading, especially for a first-year. Oliver couldn’t help but wonder what had driven the kid to dive into such complex material, picking up another textbook.

"Sir. Fieldstone's guide to Medicinal Brewing?"

It was a humorous book, Oliver knew the subject of medicinal potions wasn't really what his year's Potions were for, but the author had a real knack for writing comedy in between his passionately detailed recipes.

"Very funny book, no?.. I guess not seeing as it's on the ground."

Oliver gathered the remaining books, carefully standing up and returning each to its usual place on the shelf. Most of them he got right, though a couple drifted up on their own, gliding to their correct spots moments after he’d set them down. He glanced at the books as they settled, feeling a mix of satisfaction and slight embarrassment at the magical correction, but he couldn’t help smiling. With the books back in order, he turned to the first-year, curious, and ready to ask just what this kid was up to.

Oliver slid into the seat across from the Gryffindor, a curious grin on his face as he leaned in, eyes fixed on the open pages. But his smile quickly faded. The book was open to a chapter on the Wolfsbane Potion. His heart leapt, and his eyes widened just slightly as he froze over the familiar words, his pulse quickening in his throat. This potion—one he’d been taking for over two years to keep his secret safe—now lay openly displayed in front of him, towards an inquisitive first-year.

Struggling to keep his panic in check, Oliver forced a casual tone.

“So… interested in brewing difficult potions- a-are we?”

he asked, his voice unsteady, and his gaze a touch sharper than before.

@Oliver Thorn
Thoughts Speech

The sound of approaching footsteps was enough to momentarily distract Edwin, his finger idly tapping down the books spine, halting his reading for a moment, before resuming, assuming the footsteps to be a passerby. Instead, those footsteps got closer, and closer, and then a voice. A voice reading out the title of one of the books Edwin had just finished scanning through. This was enough of a distraction for Edwin to glance away from the book towards Oliver, offering him a nod of acknowledgement before attempting to continue with his reading. But then another title was read. Then another.

"No, that one was useless." He drawled, his tone flat, disinterested. After a moment, he sighed, closing his book, shoving it into the centre of the table. He watched silently as Oliver moved, slotting books back onto the shelves. Saves me the effort. He thought to himself, his gaze following the other boy as he took a seat across from Edwin. "Hello then, I guess." He muttered, barley loud enough to be heard by anyone. "Good of you to make yourself useful." He said, referring to Oliver having put away the various books, sounding genuinely appreciative of Olivers assistance in cleaning up.

The shift in Olivers expression caught Edwins eye, his brows furrowing for a moment, grabbing back the book, and flicking it back open to the pages on wolfsbane. "Not particularly." He began, to Olivers question about brewing potions, "Well, sort of.. I guess. But that's not why I'm here today." He corrected himself. He did find potions to be fascinating, but he couldn't bring himself to actually study ahead in this subject, it was far too complicated.

"Just this potion in particular." He prodded at the text with his finger, ensuring that Oliver could see that it was indeed the Wolfsbane potion that the first year was attempting to study. "Seems like a shoddy solution to those.. Things." As he referred to them as things, disgust was etched into the boys expression, the very thought of them enough to illicit such a reaction from him.

"Says here." His finger moving across the page, using it as a pointer to aid Oliver as he spoke. "This potion only calms them, allows them to keep their mind.. All of this effort." He finger moved across to the instructions. "And to just calm their mind? You'd of thought someone could of came up with something better.. Then again." He paused, allowing for a moment of silence to hang between the two. "Would those things warrant the effort?"

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Things? this 1st Year had just called me a Thing. How deplorable, how arrogant. A low, burning anger stirred Oliver's blood, each word from the blond man's mouth stoking the flame. The stiffness that had gripped Oliver's body melted away, replaced with an electric tension that made his hands clench ever so slightly, his constantly dirt-ridden fingers now digging into his palm.

“Things, huh?” he muttered, voice low with a barely controlled edge.

The Library fell into a momentary silence, as if the shelves themselves leaned in to catch Edwin's next words. Oliver’s gaze bore into the first-year’s, Oliver's tired, dark brown eyes, framed by pulpy, tender eye-bags beneath, unblinking as they met Edwin’s cool blue. Seconds stretched, the only sounds the faint rustling of distant pages and the occasional shuffle of a student somewhere deeper in the library.

After a long, tense pause, he finally spoke, his voice filled with prejudice and superiority, yet laced with intensity. "Would those things warrant the effort?".

"You don’t know what you’re talking about! do you!?"

Oliver snapped, his voice shattering the library’s tranquility. Suddenly leaning forward, his hands pressing into the table as he fixed onto Edwin with a fierce, unyielding gaze. For a moment, the usual haunted, pale emptiness in his face vanished, replaced by a fierce, smouldering intensity. The Hufflepuff quickly relocated where he was sitting, circling viciously around the table till he sat next to Edwin.

"I’d expect a bit more empathy from a Gryffindor,” Oliver's voice dripping with sarcasm. “You sure the Sorting Hat didn’t get lost trying to find where that brain of yours is?”

He leaned back, crossing his arms, his eyes narrowing as he waited for Edwin’s response, the fire in his gaze daring to prove him wrong. The slither of self-control Oliver had, being called out so uncouthly, so unknowingly, was beginning to snap.

Reducio

A bit extreme for Oliver, but being young and constantly weary, has it's effects on a kid's temper.

@Oliver Thorn
Thoughts Speech

"Things." He echoed. "Monsters, beasts, freaks.. Take your pick." He suggested, his tone flat, and almost disinterested. He spoke as if these terms should be obvious, there should be no questioning to why Edwin referred to werewolves as such.

The boy shifted forwards slightly as Oliver met his gaze, silently staring back at him. His face was void of expression, watching in complete silence, curious to Olivers reaction. He was aware his views on this subject were dated, after all public opinion had mostly shifted around werewolves following the defeat of Voldemort. However, given stories from his father, and grandparents, he was steadfast in these beliefs. Given this, he had expected a reaction, likely some kind of disapproval, perhaps disappointed. The reaction he was given, however, surprised him. It was intense, and it caused Edwin to instinctively lean back away from the other boy. His face, however, remained expressionless, save for the furrowing of his brows.

"Touched a nerve then." He said, his lips curling into a grin.

"I know plenty." He responded quickly, before jabbing at the book with his finger. "This wolfsbane stuff? Hardly a suitable treatment.. You trust that those.. People" The word left his mouth with disgust, as if he had forced himself to spit it out. "will remember it each and every month?"

At the question of whether or not the sorting had had gotten lost, Edwin nodded his head. "That old hat's gone senile." He glanced briefly down at the lion embroiled onto his robes with a scowl. "Placed a Westbridge into Gryffindor.. Never once in our entire history, has a Westbridge been a Gryffindor." He muttered under his breath, before looking back towards Oliver, his eyes briefly glancing about his robes, before falling onto the badger. He stifled his laugh at the sight, quietly saying. "Hufflepuff. Makes sense.. You pity them, don't you?" His grin broadened, his finger idly tapping against the illustration of the wolfsbane potion. "Awfully hufflepuffey of you... So caring, so kind." He drawled, reclining back into his seat, his arms folded across his chest.

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"Well I don't need to guess a 'Westbridge' is meant to be Slytherin," Oliver said with an apparent, mocking tone through the surname. "And I—yeah! I pity them... Everyone should! You honestly have no idea how hard it must be for them!"

He had a habit of nearly blurting out his darkest secrets in moments like these. The last time had been from pure adrenaline and joy; this time, however, it was pure outrage. With a hearty huff, Oliver pressed his face even closer, spitting out more ridicule with every bit of his simmering frustration into his words. His voice grew firmer, almost shaking as he continued his onslaught of impassioned ridicule, rattling off each bitter thought he had bottled up about the cruelty of his condition. The thought of someone dismissing the suffering he knew so well...

"And I bet they remember take the Wolfsbane all. the. time. It can’t be easy to forget what you are. I... imagine every waking moment reminds them just how painful that transformation is. I bet they shiver at the thought of the full moon. It’s hardly possible not to be prepared when everything around you is a reminder!"

Every sentence sharper than the last. And yet, he didn’t notice the small, mocking smile tugging at the Gryffindor’s lips, the faint gleam of amusement in their otherwise empty blue eyes. The 2nd Year was entirely blind to the reality; Oliver was little more than a source of twisted entertainment to this boy, a mere amusement in their otherwise carefree day.

Oliver panted heavily, his chest rising and falling in quick, ragged breaths beneath his inky robes and bright yellow scarf. His eyes locked onto Edwin, blazing with pure disdain, a fire that seemed to burn against the cold indifference of his classmate. His lips were parted, still trembling from the weight of what he had said, his mouth hanging open in disbelief, as if he couldn’t quite believe what had just spilled from his own tongue. Every muscle in his body seemed coiled, with tightly gripped fists, ready to lash out, but it was his mind that was about to explode—like a pressure cooker about to burst, the steam of frustration rising with every passing second above his furrowed brows.

@Oliver Thorn
Thoughts Speech

"We are meant to be Slytherins." He confirmed with a slight nod of his head. The mocking tone was not lost on the Westbridge, but he chose not to give a reaction to it. After all, why should he? In the eyes of Edwin, somebody who would defend werewolves, was not somebodies opinion should be dwelled on.

Edwins head tilted slightly as he considered Olivers argument. Everyone should pity them? In some sense, Edwin did pity them. But there was so many money feelings he had directed towards werewolves other than just pity, it was hard to put it into words. And so, he sat there, silent. His expression a mix of confusion, and an uncharacteristic growing frustration. Unable to properly put into words how it was that he felt about those creatures. Instead, he opted to take the 'mature' route.

That familiar, teasing grin returning to the Gryffindors face. "Really have touched a nerve.." He began in that same typical, bored drawl. "Why do you care so much for those freaks?"

Despite the tone of his words, Edwin remained somewhat on edge. Whilst their conversation was playing out to be very amusing, the boy opposite him clearly cared much more about werewolves than the Gryffindor did. He cared enough to continuously close the space between the two, a voice that held conviction that Edwin was unfamiliar with. There was very little that could have drawn out such a reaction from the Westbridge, and it unsettled him to see someone so enthused about something so trivial.

"And I bet they don't." He responded, waving his hand dismissively. "You really do have such an odd amount of faith in these beasts.. Fascinating how you seem to have so much blind faith in them.. I'd almost respect that, if it wasn't faith in things so undeserving."

As the Hufflepuffs breathes grew shaky, and quickened, Edwin stared back at him blankly. "What's got you so worked up?" He asked, some semblance of sincerity in his tone. "We're just talking about werewolves here, nothing that you should care about."

Edwin leant forward towards the table, his hands resting on the table. Beneath the mocking grin, there was something else to Edwins expression, and demeanour. Something resembling curiosity. A curiosity as to how Oliver would react to Edwin pressing at his buttons. The pair sat as almost perfect opposites of one another. One seemingly about to explode, and the other perfectly calm, willing for the explosion to happen.

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Oliver’s hazel eyes bored deeply into Edwin’s blue, their gazes clashing like two storms on a collision course. The tension between them was palpable, thick enough to be cut with a knife. It was as if Oliver were a rabid dog, trembling with fury, growling in a desperate, animalistic need to lash out. Edwin, on the other hand, was the perfect contrast—a bored, nonchalant cat, unconcerned and indifferent to the storm brewing in Oliver’s chest right before him.

It should have been embarrassing, the raw, unfiltered anger that bled from every corner of Oliver’s being, every inch of his body. But in that moment, he was blind to the shame. His emotions were too overwhelming, too consuming to care about such things. His every thought, every accusation, was wrapped in a scalding, rage-filled fire, fed by the hurt and frustration he couldn’t articulate. All that mattered was the burning need to confront Edwin, to make him understand how wrong he was, how evil Oliver believed him to be.

His teeth clenched with such force, such tension, they could have shattered, he barked even more words at Edwin; smacking the table with power as the Gryffindor dismissed his 'empathy' and 'faith' for someone he was apparently disconnected to.

"I honestly doubt you care about anybody but yourself!" He roared, his heartbeat drumming in his ear so loudly he could barely hear himself yell the words. "I bet not! No matter if they are human, half-breed, a creature, or a 'freak'!"

Oliver snapped at him with such disdain and utterly appalling mannerisms, barely forcing the last word out of his own gut, it took all the air from his lungs just to say, that one word.

Oliver’s chest heaved, each breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps as if the air itself had been stolen from him in the heat of the moment. His mind split with pain, his thoughts scattered, the anger bubbling over in such a way that it left him lightheaded, dizzy from the lack of oxygen. His frustration only worsened the physical strain, and as he fought to regulate his breathing, his dark hair fell forward, tumbling in front of his pale face. Each furious exhale pushing back on the hair-strands covering his features. The red hue in his pupils staring daggers at Edwin's, and the baggy, supple, dark skin beneath his sockets lining his furious gaze.

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Oliver was consumed by his own rage, his scrunched face drilling into Edwin’s. His ears barely registered the first few words, sounding more like—“Can it!”—as his mind had altered and translated through the storm raging inside him. After that, his mind simply gave up on processing anything Edwin said. The tempest brewing within him had grown too strong, its relentless winds drowning out any words of reason Edwin might have thrown his way.

Some students began diverting their attention from textbooks and parchment to the scene unfolding at Edwin's table. The booming slam of wood and the volley of foul words that had roared from Oliver's tongue shattered the library's peace, drawing curious stares and perked ears. Whispers floated through the library as student eyes scanned for commotion, some gazes eventually locking onto the two of them. But Oliver was oblivious to it all. His focus was tunneled entirely on Edwin, his surroundings fading into in his mind. Even if someone had slung a spell at him, Oliver likely wouldn’t have noticed, nor cared.

His lips quivered, signalling the next onslaught of words as his chest puffed visibly through the folds of his robes, then, Oliver's rageful glare abruptly broke from Edwin, his clenched teeth parting as his jaw slackened. Suddenly, a violent cough erupted from him, the air seeming to vanish from his lungs as the toll of his condition caught up with him. His body jerked backward, right into his seat, each dry, painful exhale wracking his thin frame as he continued to cough uncontrollably. The once fury in his eyes, died down to pitiful exhaustion.