10 Mar 2025, 03:21
On Demiguise...
A subtle spring breeze flowed its way across the Hogwarts grounds. The sounds of leaves rustling in newly budded trees, and the chatter of gaggles of students filled the air. The sun shone brightly, here a cloud in the sky. It was simply beautiful outside. Though, that is not where one would find Emmanuel on this day.
Sitting at an ornate wooden study desk, a pile of books stands tall as Em flicks through his worn copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them he got from Diagon Ally before the start of term. The scarlet cover's thread starting to fray at the edges, the spine loose from being open constantly, and the pages worn with dog-ears; marking specific species Em found to be intriguing. Though, on this particular spring day (and honestly, most days) the book laid open to the pages about the Demiguise.
A beautiful, and mysterious creature, covered in ethereally white fur, and with the biggest, brightest blue eyes. Not only was this Em's favorite creature, it is also the creature in which he has had the most experience.
Reading, and re-reading Mr. Scamander's notes on the Demiguise always brought comfort to Em as it allowed him to satiate his feeling of homesickness, where his family's demiguise dwelled.
Em thought about Chica often. She was always there as he grew up, and coming to Hogwarts has been the farthest Em had ever been from Chica his whole life. She usually spent every moment she could being near to him; watching over him, and utilizing her gift of foresight to ensure he didn't get into mortal trouble. Em let out a breath, reminiscing on the fondness he felt towards the creature.
Em picked up his quill, and dipped the nib into the onyx colored ink. Em's hand moved towards the small piece of parchment he was currently drawing on; which had once been his potion's essay. The parchment depicted a hand drawn picture of a demiguise. The ink eyes looked back at him as he worked on detailing the fur. As he went to dip his quill again after spending a few minutes fiddling with the line work, his sleeve caught the edge of a precariously placed book. As the tome shifted, it clattered into the open bottle of ink, spilling it over the top of the desk, down Em's white shirt, and onto the wooden floors below him.
"Buggar," Em muttered, slipping out of his chair, and blotting at the pooled ink with the edge of his black school robe.