Closed Unlikely Company PV

banner by Oonagh Brown || interacting as Hans Jenssen

The Hogwarts campgrounds. Hans would have rather stayed anywhere else.

Granted, the accommodation was fine enough. The eight log cabins provided comfortably mellow sleeping and living quarters, from his curtained bunk bed, personal chests, and even soft wool rugs to lose his feet in. Of course it was nothing like the dormitory that had been made home but it was a fairly acceptable place to stay in the absolute trenches of schools.

The memories, however, haunted him despite every needless apology. When would he step out his entrance and not see the phantom figure of the shadowed boy in the doorframe, not remember how he had pushed past him with a remark followed by the defeated wisp of “sorry”, not feel his body tense as he still felt cold in the near-summer air. The tear-stained cheeks, the wind-whipped faces, how the world had disappeared around them as they embraced each other, no different than the complete climax that had grabbed them by the neck in the faraway summertimes, where everything seemed so unbelievably easier. Yet, as Hans had felt his body so closely pressed against Nikolai’s, raw, tender, and loving, no different then from any other day, the tip of a wand was tapped on his back. After that, was only shock. And confusion. And anger. And worry. And above all still that stubborn, mulish brotherly love.

It was six fucking months ago, and for the life of him, Hans did not know why he could not move on. He still remembered when Nikolai had waken late into the night with screams so guttural they wrenched his gut, cutting through his own series of nightmares as he himself awoke with a jolt. Every damn time he would find Nikolai’s eyes and see fear, the same fear that was directed towards him, and for that second he would think all he had dreamt was only reality. It was only a bare moment as he composed himself, yet that second, out of every wound, and every wail, and every lament, was what terrified him most. Soon he knew Nikolai would slip into apologies. Once, and scarily still today in his most flawed times, whether towards himself or others but never Nikolai, he had harboured a strong irritation towards people who overused the word in the manner that almost stroke him as pathetic as they did, an irksome behaviour he would be quick to dismiss. Yet he had long realised that was a judgement most unfair, and when he had truly known reasons behind such rambling apologies there was nothing more he wanted to extend than his comfort. And every time, he did without question.

There were little people other than Nikolai who brought out the best of him. That part of him, however, was also one Hans did not want on full display to the stray passerby. He felt naked without the smiles and laughter, the carelessness and indifference, the arrogance and cockiness. He felt absolutely split into two, his innards taken out and scrutinised, before being crudely shoved in back again by the shouts that were not the encouragements before a game, the tears that were not the joy after victory, and of course the deep-rooted suspicion that he was no better than the evil in his life, that in his blackened heart he was a monster, the vindictive wolf that longed for nothing but blood. It was only around Nikolai and alone with him that he let himself strip away the bravado as if he were a snake shedding his skin until he fit comfortably into his own body, until he could allow whatever he needed to come with no fear of judgement, whether from himself or the boy sat opposite, and prepared to return the favour. Perhaps it was such poignant sways of emotion that made him human.

Granted, he loved Nikolai. Of course, that was forever unconditional and barely needed a mention of any sort.

It was scary when Hans’ mind spiralled, and such long internal monologues ought not to have existed in the first place. It was also one of the primary reasons he preferred company over none, where he could breeze through every conversation as if he was a surfer who had caught a wave, with no need to think of what next direction to lead himself in. And it was in times like these where he, rightfully so put, scavenged for interaction, that, especially, in the thrill of new acquaintances.

Decidedly, Hans straightened from where he stood with one leg on a rock in the fields, admiring the April weather, almost verging on good for a surprising change, considering their dismal location of the forever gloomy Scotland. There were at least no storm clouds lining the sky, only drifting mist above at most as the sun (the sun!) shone, not with any piercing brightness in particular, but really the beggar known as Hogwarts can’t be a chooser. He was yet to have manoeuvred his way towards his room, and with his backpack still slung on his shoulder, he squinted. A tally erected figure as the settling crowds buzzed around him Hans’ eyes flitted over the people as they tried to locate someone not too busy with taking up residence in the cabins. Which seemed to be very little people. At least that narrowed down his search.

Finally, they settled on a girl relaxing by a rose bush with curly auburn hair. He had never even seen her before, much less met her. As he made his approach, Hans noticed her scribbling away in what seemed to be a journal. Curiosity struck.

“Why hallo,” he said, sitting beside her, “I hope I’m not being an intrusion?”

"The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly”- --------- William WoodsWorth Playing as Isadora Vilaca——

The leathery touch of Isadora’s journal seemed cool underneath the girls fingertips, the pale yellow parchment paper that resided in the journal had an old dingy smell wafting with the scent of fresh ink. Seemed nostalgic to Isadora making the girl seem somewhat at home. Hogwarts was always strange to the girl. Especially since the first experience at this school she had was a bit of an explosion first impression. A shiver went down the girl's spine at just the thought of Hogsmeade. That day was a bit traumatic even though it was months ago.

Lost in the thin parchment papers of her journal Isadora did not hear the approaching footsteps that seemed to bear the auburn haired girl.

The gentle greeting of a thick accent seemed to draw the girl from her inner thoughts. Squeaking in surprise Isadora glanced upwards, the color of the clear ocean blue waves stared into an unfamiliar set of chocolate colored brown eyes.

The young castelo girl was confused at first why this young boy seemed to come up to her. He was tall, lean in built compared to the young girl. Isadora was short after all for her age standing around four foot three, while she had an average built and golden tan skin that seemed to make the girls eyes pop more. Her curly auburn hair framed her face gently with a few loose curls while pulled back in a ponytail with her signature bandanna with random flowers placed a bit under the bandanna letting the blossoming flowers shine in the growing sunlight. While a few loose seashells hung lowly from the ends of the bandanna.

It took the young girl to notice the boy sitting down near her. Fidgeting slightly, Isadora moved slightly nervously. Her heart began to race. Strange though this boy came and sat near the young girl who was staying alone? Many would avoid the lone girl. But yet this boy came and sat near her, a rather strange occurrence, something she was not familiar with.

Isadora blinked for a second realizing the boy had spoken and all she was doing was staring the boy down like a feral cat that was terrified out of its own hide. A light blush dusted Isadora’s cheeks in embarrassment as she shook her head quickly, knocking her journal down in the process of her frantic movements.

Squeaking once more Isadora bent downwards quickly to retrieve her journal. Feeling the back of her neck heat up in embarrassment as her ears tinged red. A klutz that was what Isadora was a pure klutz. Quickly Isadora sat her journal in hand as her face seemed to warm up in embarrassment. The girl had no idea what to say. She feared she looked like an utter fool to this boy. Maybe a scared kitten or a rabbit that was being startled she had no idea.

“S-Sorry, you're not intruding. Sit um well you are sitting. I’m sorry.”

Isadora stuttered with her creole accent wavering nervously, her tone light as a feather as she fidgeted holding to her journal tightly. Staring up at the taller boy curiously. Feeling her ears feel hot to the touch, the light pink blush of embarrassment dusting the girl's face as she fidgeted slightly. Looking up nervously as she held her journal close to her face, crystal blue eyes locked into chocolate brown ones. Curiosity seemed to grow inside Isadora. This boy seemed interesting. Maybe it was the lack of socialization for Isadora that she was not used to. After all, the girl mainly socialized with her cousins over other children. Though she would not change that she enjoyed her cousin's company over other peoples but yet the girl should not be picky, cautious yes picky not really.

Blinking slowly Isadora fidgeted slightly on the bench she sat upon glancing up at the boy a bit taking in his appearance. He was definitely interesting, his accent seemed rather interesting as well. Though she was not entirely sure where it was from nor any information. Though Isadora also did not travel much from her home island to Castelebruxo and then to Hogwarts. Fidgeting a bit Isadora tilted her head slightly realizing she was staring, the young girl blushed once more in embarrassment glancing away nervously.

“S-sorry. I’m Isadora. You?”

Isadora spoke quietly as she fiddled with the edges of her journal as she kept it close to her chest glancing back up at the strange boy. She was curious as to why the lad seemed to come and intrude on her solitude but Isadora supposed she did not mind after all. Who would say no to company?

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wc: 811 tag: @Archer Duncan as Johannes “Hans” Jenssen ──────────────

notes: ────────────── ──────────────

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banner by Oonagh Brown || interacting as Hans Jenssen

When awkward words spilt out of her mouth oddly enough the first thing Hans would notice was her accent. He had heard his fair share from his neighbouring country of French from both the Beauxbaton excursion and his own attendance of the LeDames gathering, yet he could not quite place his finger on what in particular sounded off in the girl’s voice. Brushing past the minute detail that somehow snagged his attention the second point of interest was her journal, held almost as if she was attempting to hide her face. Though nowhere as prying to ask directly what its contents may hold his untethered mind wondered in hopes that it was not as cliche as a documentation of a day that proved to be uneventful up to this point.

Soon such thoughts dissipated as he was greeted with another apology and an introduction to follow. “S-sorry. I’m Isadora. You?”

Her quiet murmuring of words stuttered a little before coming out nervous and on edge, as she fiddled anxiously at the journal at her chest. He paused for a few seconds, allowing her to compose herself lest the moment grew embarrassing under his sudden greeting. After all not much thought had been placed into the arbitrary choice, but if he was to collect friends as if they were Pokemon cards, that was a sacrifice to be made and the risk of coming off too strong to be taken. Though about to reassure her not to apologise he pushed the topic away from her unease and instead focused on familiarising her with his own self.

“Hans,” he introduced, swinging his arm out for a handshake before he could stop himself. “ Nice to meet you Isadora.” It felt unnatural as Hans actually registered the motion, one he had seen so often if not at the little gatherings he had attended then at least in his life with the cold acknowledgment rife at Durmstrang. If she would take it, such a common scene yet one that he had practically never done over the entirety of those thirteen years, he would be careful not to exert too much strength yet with enough certainty of their first acquaintance. Soon enough he brushed it off as nothing and his own bad habits of overthinking as he smoothed the conversation with a new question.

“ So where are you from?” He asked, eyes trailing up and down her features as he attempted to connect them with past resemblance, yet came out empty-handed. Like most of the other students here she must have been from one of the foreign schools coalesced at Hogwarts. What a terrible choice for a meeting point but Hans figured he would do something more productive than sitting around and judging the place like he had been for the past few months. “ I can’t say I've seen you around before. I myself am from Durmstrang, but I doubt we share the Institute.”

To Hans such international assemblages every few times a year held extreme potential if not for the danger that had followed his prior experiences. Not only always one seeking the blossoming of friendships but curious towards culture he had never stepped foot in, such eagerness often stemmed from the insatiable fernweh to explore every inch in the origin of others. A perfect opportunity with an intriguing premise, as long as the host school did not botch occasion he would be perfect content to attend.

Hans thought, at least if the Spring Ball was to end in another pile of ash — which, for evident purposes he hoped against, the new and diverse collection of friendships he made along the way before such an inevitable disaster struck would at least make the trip to and fro worth his time. And, as he smiled in warm acknowledgement, he found he was enjoying himself for the first time at Hogwarts.

"The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly”- --------- William WoodsWorth Playing as Isadora Vilaca——

The rapid beating of Isadora’s heart vibrated in her ears, her grip on her journal the cool leather journal. The soft dark rustic brown cover felt slightly cool under the girls' frail like fingers. The tips of her nails gently dug into the cover that was etched with flower-like designs.

The warm humid air picked up slightly caressing the girl's cheeks, brushing against the array of flowers woven into the top of her head underneath her bandana. Making her auburn brown curls bounce slightly in the ponytail that she adorned. Her sapphire blue eyes seemed to dart a bit nervously, though the young girl seemed to do well to keep her anxiety down the best she could. As if she was a small kitten wary of its surroundings.

“Hans.”

The boy's accented voice broke Isadora from her own little world. Glancing up more over at the boy, a bit more curious Isadora felt. The boy's voice was definitely not similar to the students at Hogwarts that had the more British or Scottish accents that she seemed to slowly get used to. But his voice was much different. Though he sounded rather gentle trying to put the girl at ease. As if he could tell that she was nervous like a stray cat being introduced to humans for the first time. Yet Isadora could feel her shoulders relaxed as her heartbeat seemed to slowly calm down.

Crystal clear ocean-like eyes noticed Hans' arm move upwards, his hand was extended for a handshake. Slowly Isadora shifted her journal into her left arm while holding her right arm out to gently shake Han’s hand. Her small frail hand gripped the boy’s hand gently but firmly as the young girl looked slightly down shyly forming a small tiny shy smile towards the boy. As her eyes locked onto the boys. Eyes like the ocean sparkling in the early spring sunlight.

“Nice to meet you Isadora”

Those words seemed to echo slightly in Isadora’s ears; she was not sure why but it was fairly comforting to the girl's ears. Rather off she supposed but the young pre-teen was not gonna question it or ask any unnecessary questions after all there was no reason to dwell on things like that after all.

“Oh, yes. Pleasure as well Hans. Umm to meet you that is.”

Isadora felt her words tumble out her mouth like a jar of coins being dropped on the ground. Speaking to people was not a new thing for the girl, but she supposed speaking to someone fairly friendly seemed to throw the girl off just slightly. Alas she was not going to question it besides she had no reason to question the boy's kindness.

“So where are you from?”

A simple question, but a question that seemed to take Isadora by surprise. Someone was curious about her? Was that a good thing? Or maybe a bad thing? Yet she did not see any ulterior motives from the young boy. Yet she was still wary and cautious. Of course she knew going to her hometown was a bit difficult for many. It was a small wizarding port town. In Jacmel Haiti. Yet the boy seemed rather curious. Isadora could tell he meant no harm. So she supposed explaining her hometown and her school would not cause any harm or damage.

Isadora could notice the boy upsizing the rather short girl. She was short for her age. Isadora was four foot three. A small petite girl while her curls seemed to frame her heart shaped face perfectly. With her thin long frail fingers she had to admit she was not awful looking but the girl definitely was short for a young twelve year old.

“I can't say I've seen you around before. I myself am from Durmstrang, but I doubt we share the same institute.”

Hearing the boy finish his sentence Isadora grew curious, where was Durmstrang again? The girl seemed to rack her brain but seemed a bit lost but nonetheless decided to answer the boy.

“Maudeline, it’s a small wizarding port town. I attend Castelobruxo.”

Isadora spoke softly; her Creole accent was soft like a feather floating in the air. Eyes as blue as the oceans waves seemed to gaze softly at Han’s. The girl was slowly getting comfortable and a bit more curious about the boy. Durmstrang? A rather funny name for a school. But she supposed Hogwarts was a rather odd name as well. As if the founders of these schools had no sense of name giving.

But yet where was Durmstrang? Isadora tilted her head slightly in curiosity, her sapphire eyes grew wide like a curious young kitten as she had withdrawn her hand a while ago from the handshake with Hans holding her journal once more to her chest.

“Where is Durmstrang located? Sounds rather odd? Durmstrang?”

Isadora spoke softly though her words may have sounded rather rude. The young girl was curious. Her eyes brows furrowed slightly in confusion as her tone was soft dripping with curiosity. Her wide sapphire blue eyes seemed to radiate confusion and curiosity like a small kitten or a rabbit that was intrigued with a new toy.

Isadora was rather confused on why anyone would name a school that but she supposed one could say the same about Castleobruxo; it was as if someone just made the school's name similar to a fancy castle. One would say Hogwarts should be named Castelbruxo; it resembled a castle more than Castleobruxo itself. But yet the girl had no control over the names of the schools. After all she was not even thought of when the schools were founded.

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wc: 974 tag: @Hans Jenssen ──────────────

notes: ────────────── ──────────────

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banner by Oonagh Brown || interacting as Hans Jenssen

Isadora seemed like an awkward girl. Not physically, for she hadn’t yet been cursed with the teenage lankiness at her short height (perhaps a blessing despite how it could have been stigmatised among some). However she didn’t quite carry the fluidity of the Durmstrangnian heiresses, or even the brashness of the Institute’s most ferocious fighters. Instead it was almost as if she did not quite know to conduct herself and well, if that was the case, Hans would do his best to smooth the messy folds of the conversation over.

Then, as she answered her question, Hans allowed his brows to raise in interest.

Castelobruxo. The name sounded familiar as he rolled it on his tongue, as if he had not only encountered it before, but spoke the exact same syllables in his own mouth once. Then it struck him as the South American school he had announced in the duel at Beauxbatons, between a student hailing from the opposite hemisphere and a Hogwartsian. He had distinctly remembered the black-haired boy, whose build had seemed to have secured his victory from the very start. Hans smiled with satisfaction as he placed the name, words sounding “Castelobruxo — ah, do you know Arno Dorian then? You two look like you’re about the same year.”

Maudeline on the other hand.… He had never heard of the place, but then again based on Isadora’s description the boy raised on urban blood would have been surprised if he did. This also meant she did not exactly answer his question, and mild curiosity took over the steering wheel of the conversation as he sorted through the possibilities in his mind. After all being a child of the capital he had heard his fair share of accents and seen enough nationalities. French? Definitely not, it sounded off from what he would have expected, and she certainly did not attend the school located there. Cajun? Quebecoise? Except being a Canadian or American would have landed her in Ilvernormy. “Is that… Creole?” A wild guess — who would have expected it to be right?

His lips spread into a mischievous grin as Isadora asked for Durmstrang’s whereabouts, “Well, that I can’t tell you. Not because I don’t want to, but no one knows. As far as I’m aware, it’s not a stable location or at least one that’s not shown on a map, but if I have to guess, somewhere in the Laplands, probably on the Norwegian border of Russia since that’s our language of instruction. Honestly,” he said, forever in appreciation of the Institute despite his first gripes against the frozen wasteland of a school, “I don’t really care, considering the view is magnificent, we get endless nights and midnight suns, and not even the mention the aurora borealis, that’s enough said really.” Trust him to break into monologue in the middle of a conversation, and trust him to have total confidence while doing so.

Hans laughed however as Isadora commented on the odd pronunciation, shifting casually into a more comfortable position as her body seemed to carry less tension, “I mean, Beauxbatons literally means ‘pretty sticks’, so I don’t really think that’s out of the norm!” At least he knew enough French to identify that; it was the truth that had undoubtedly changed his perception of the school once romanticised — the founder could have at least put a sliver of thought into how his school would be known. Pondering over the name of his own Institute, he voiced a guess he had never been positive on, “I’m pretty sure Durmstrang means Sturm and Drang, which is a German expression for turmoil, ferment. No idea why though, we don’t even speak German at school.” Honestly purebloods and their “traditions”… the whole thing was a bit absurd.

“Anyways…” he shifted the topic away from such dull talk as his eyes drifted to the notebook. After all Hans could learn all about exactly how tedious name etymologies were if there were another pandemic, and today, blissfully maskless and far from COVID-19, he would rather have grown closer with a human being. In his eyes glistened not quite a spirit of inquiry but interest, as if he was hanging onto every word and action to examine her mind. Although the laughter and smiles were born from genuine emotion, they weren’t entirely pure either. He wouldn’t pry, nor was he particularly curious, but enough to have asked, “Are you writing anything you want to share?”