Favours and Second Meetings PV Damien

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Nevan listened closely, dark eyes staying on Damien as he spoke. It wasn’t difficult to see the way his face lit up with pride whenever Astronomy came up, and Nevan found it curious. It was rare to meet someone who spoke about a subject with such eagerness, even if they liked it. Most people he knew talked about lessons simply because they were expected to, not because they truly wanted to.

He smoothed his sleeve again when Damien mentioned Potions, lowering his gaze for a moment to think before lifting it once more. “I suppose you’re right,” he admitted softly. “Maybe it is in my blood. My father would say much the same.” There was no complaint in his tone, only acknowledgement. He was aware of the expectations his family carried, not crushing, exactly, but always present, shaping the edges of his choices. At least he really did like Potions.

Damien’s reassurance about the second year classes drew the smallest of smiles from him. That seemed to be happening more and more often for him, he was usually more stoic. But he didn't usually have such nice conversations, either. [color=#235347That’s good to hear. If you say next year isn't overly difficult, I'll believe you.”[/color] He let out a slow breath through his nose. “There’s always someone waiting to see if you fail. It’s better not to give them the satisfaction.”

He adjusted his tie once again then, pride flickering subtly in his expression as the silver thread caught the light. “And you can manage, then I suppose I should manage to too. You seem to have done well enough.” His tone carried no flattery, as it was simply an observation, stated plainly.

Nevan shifted slightly in his seat, resting his hands neatly on the edge of the table. “But tell me, Damien,” he continued, his voice steady but tinged with curiosity. “Which subjects do you find the most rewarding? And which ones are difficult, even for you?”

He tilted his head just a fraction, the faintest gesture of interest. “I don’t like being caught unprepared. If there are subjects that challenge even Ravenclaws like you, I’d rather know sooner than later, so I can study ahead.” The way he said it was quiet but resolute, as though the mere thought of being blindsided by failure was something he had no intention of entertaining. He hated failing.

There was no pressure in his question, though. It was spoken with the same polite formality as always, if a little more relaxed because he knew Damien, his posture upright, his every movement deliberate.

As he waited for a response, he took out his Transfiguration homework, taking his quill and writing his name on the essay, ready to begin writing it. He could get some homework done while still talking to Damien.
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Nevan nodded his head slightly at Damien’s honesty, his expression steady but not unkind. “Transfiguration can be… particular,” he said at last after thinking for a second, smoothing the parchment he laid out before himself. “Precision makes all the difference. It requires a lot of focus.” He said, thinking back on his own Transfiguration lessons.

Nevan reached into his satchel and drew out the materials for his homework with careful hands. An ink bottle, quill, some neatly folded parchment. He uncorked the ink with practiced ease, dipping the quill in only once before setting it to the page. His handwriting was precise, deliberate strokes forming letters without hesitation.

“I’m working on homework for that right now,” he remarked, glancing up briefly before returning his gaze to the parchment. “Professor Kāne assigned us an essay.” He wrote his name in a sharp, flowing script before beginning the first line of his essay. “The theory isn’t difficult to me, I've read a lot about Transfiguration. The practical work requires more focus, but I don’t find it unmanageable.” His quill scratched softly as he spoke, the words emerging in even rhythm.

For a moment, he paused to adjust the angle of his parchment. Then he continue, tone quiet but firm. “I hope you don't mind me working on this, I have Transfiguration today and I didn't manage to do my homework yesterday.” His eyes flicked toward Damien, steady and polite, if a bit nervous. “We could still talk.”

Nevan didn't want his conversation with Damien to end so soon. He found himself enjoying the older boy's company and even relaxing a bit in it. Damien didn't expect perfection from him like most people did, and that drew Nevan in. He wanted to be his friend. He hoped they counted as that, but he couldn't be too sure if they'd moved on from the acquaintances stage.

His eyes lingered a moment longer on Damien, consider, before returning to the words he was writing on his parchment.
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Nevan kept his quill steady, his eyes fixed on the neat lines of his essay as he thought over Damien’s question. It wasn’t something he had expected to be asked, and for a moment his strokes slowed, his usual precision pausing as memory crept in.

“I’ve… tried baking before,” he said carefully, the words quiet but clear. “Not often. Only a few times.” His quill moved again, the deliberate rhythm of his writing resuming. “I thought it was interesting. Measuring, combining, waiting for the result—it reminded me of Potions, but a bit simpler.” A faint curve appeared on his lips, though it faded almost as soon as it appeared.

He paused to dip his quill back into the ink, keeping the motion meticulous, as though the order of his work helped steady him. “But my mother saw me, once. She said it wasn’t something I should do, that it was for house-elves.” His eyes stayed on the parchment, though his tone remained polite, even. “She told me I was making a fool of myself. After that, I didn’t try again.” And she had said it in a much sterner tone and with a few extra words, that prompted him to not want to try again.

There was no bitterness in the way he said it, only a calm statement, the way he might recite a fact from a book. But there was some bitterness in his eyes, not too noticeable if you weren't observant, since he was good at masking his emotions. He adjusted the parchment so the lines sat square with the table’s edge before adding, almost briskly, “Still, I suppose I can say I have tried it. Painting, I have not.”

His eyes lifted at last, meeting Damien’s with a steadier look, and he was eager to steer the conversation away from himself. “What about you?” he asked, nodding faintly toward the watercolor book Damien had been paging through. “You said you were reading about painting earlier. Do you enjoy it?”

The question wasn’t idle; there was genuine curiosity in his tone. Nevan’s quill hovered just above the parchment as though giving Damien his full attention, at least for that moment. His expression softened, composed but open, and he let the silence linger just long enough for Damien to know he was listening before he returned to writing a line on Untransfiguration, still waiting for Damien's reply.
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Nevan blinked once, caught a little off guard by the sheer force of Damien’s reaction. For a moment, he only watched him, calm, attentive, as if gauging the best way to respond. Then, softly, he shook his head. “You don’t need to be upset,” he said, his tone quiet but steady. “She only thinks that way because of how she was raised. In her world, certain tasks have… places. People have them too.”

His quill rested unmoving in his hand now, hovering above the parchment. “It doesn’t mean she’s right,” he added, a faint emphasis there. Not really rebellious, but quietly firm. “But she believes she is. So I stopped arguing with her.” His eyes lowered again, the edges of his mouth softening just enough to hint at a small, resigned smile. “I don’t think there’s any shame in baking. Or painting. I just… didn’t try again after that. I think it's nice that you like it.”

He dipped his quill back into the ink, the motion smooth, deliberate, as if grounding himself in routine. “I think it’s nice that your mother does that herself,” he said after a pause, glancing back up. “It sounds like she loves what she does. Maybe that’s the difference. Doing something because you enjoy it, not because it’s expected. It's admirable.”

There was only a quiet thoughtfulness in his voice. He let a moment of stillness pass before the smallest smile tugged at his lips at Damien’s enthusiastic answer. “The book might have been a clue,” he said, tone turning lighter, a faint note of amusement slipping through. “You seem very passionate about it.”

Nevan leaned slightly forward, resting his elbow on the table, something he didn't do often and never with people he didn't consider friends or want to be friends with, as he regarded him with genuine curiosity. “What do you like to paint? Landscapes? People?” His eyes flicked briefly to the cover of the watercolor book, then back to Damien. “You said it helps keep you calm… I think that’s a good reason to do it.”

He looked thoughtful, fingers brushing the edge of his parchment absently. “I’ve never painted before. Only sketched a little, when I was younger. But I’ve always thought it must take patience. And creativity.” His gaze softened again, open and sincere. “It suits you, I think. If you'd like to show me, I'd love to see one of your paintings. Whenever you'd like to show me, if you do.”
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