Trouble and a Frisbee With Fangs PV Rafal Devereux

It is frisbee flinging weather. It only takes a moment’s cursory glance at the magically induced ceiling when Rafal arrives at the Great Hall for breakfast, to ascertain this welcoming fact, a development long anticipated. He wastes no time in sprinting back to the common room the moment the food is gone, rummaging through the contents of his trunk for the desired product. Once it is in his hands, the Slytherin promptly begins making his swift journey to the grounds.

The sun is shining. The wrens are chirping. The wind is crisp and delightfully refreshing. Rafal closes his eyes for a second as he steps foot onto the narrow pathways, breathing in deeply. Oh, how grand. How glorious. This is autumn the way it ought to be, so flawlessly a median between both its predecessor and successor, yellow and red forming vibrant patches along the landscape and giving way to the most blithely homely and folksy ambience.

Despite the charming conditions, there is hardly anyone out and about - in fact, none that Rafal has seen thus far. He supposes it is not altogether too shocking. Hogwarts students of any disposition are notorious for their perpetual inability to wake at a humane hour on the weekends, as well as general indolence on these two precious days. Why, Rafal himself can only be found awaking before the sun is high, high in the sky on these select rare and esteemed occasions.

As the second year continues on his quest for a suitable location for his upcoming highly anticipated larking festivities, he cannot help but once more, somewhat worryingly evaluate at the true prudence of making use of the object so carefully clutched in his hands. Fanged frisbees. Supplied at the infamous yet somewhat notorious Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, it had come with a warning of ill-suitedness for wizards under the age of eight. Rafal is certainly far more than eight, but the message of caution nevertheless does still hint at a somewhat questionable level of safety. And the last thing he wants is to end up with a sporting item clinging incessantly to his nose or arm or some other more flustering body part. The Slytherin has enough troubles at the moment without the added weight of dying from neon flying-disc-induced mortification, thank you very much.

He takes an involuntary glance down at the item in question, hanging so innocently in between his fingertips. The circular line of tiny curved denticles, arranged so neatly along the edges of the disk, appear almost cute. Rafal feels his heart lift ever so slightly. Surely, such a whimsical little invention can serve no purpose other than the most well-intentioned? Perhaps the previously named Weasleys were merely exaggerating when it comes to the title. It is possible that the Fanged aspect of the product refers to nothing more than some sort of fanciful decoration, aimed to attract those wizards with an eye for the more quirky things in life.

Well, if that is the case - there can surely be no harm to be inflicted with the doodad. Of course, he is not aware of the specific mechanics of it (the one time Rafal does not turn apart and chew over every aspect of an instructions manual! Though now that the Slytherin really thinks back, he is not entirely sure one was supplied upon delivery, which is far too horrid a notion not to move on from immediately), but it can be assumed that the tusk-y attachments will be automatically retracted upon contact with someone or some-thing, or likely some other spell or enchantment Rafal is not yet capable enough to decipher.

Abruptly, he stops in his tracks, brakes likewise slammed on arbitrary musings. The second year spins in a circle on the spot, sweeping gaze scanning the surroundings of his current position. Yes, this is quite lovely. Large oaks and spruces forming an enclosure of sorts, so that the chances of interruption by a random passer-by is lowered significantly, at the same time not too tightly squashed an area. A perfectly acceptable spot for practicing the nugatory craft of the fanged frisbee.

Though now that he is here, Rafal is not entirely sure how to begin. His original intention had been no more well thought-out than at last making use of this seemingly incredibly purposeless Christmas gift (yes, it had been sitting in his trunk getting on a year, and its well-meaning but dull bestower shall never, ever find out), though it is only at this moment that the concept of bringing a mate along occurs to him. Not exactly much one can do with a frisbee solo. This is one of those, by nature, more collaborative ventures.

It can be attributed to the atypical early nature of his rise this morning that Rafal happened to overlook this vexingly obvious detail. He is usually much more meticulous than this, and the fact that his patent diligence seems to have left him high and dry this day, induces no little amount of reluctant irritation in the boy. For Merlin’s sake, at this point, he might as well be a Gryffindor! The very thought makes Rafal’s heart palpitate to the point that if he were any older, an inadvertent trip to St. Mungo’s might have been in order.

Ah, what the hell. Mayhap he shall simply throw the device around a tad bit, see if he can avoid all those trees. Sounds like a fairly dull use of his time, but it’s not like Rafal is swimming in offers. Beggars can’t be choosers, as they say. Who they refer to precisely, he has no idea, though it is a question which has haunted the young boy since memory.

He decides to stand by the base of one of those towering oaks, its leafy branches casting dancing shadows all around. Then he positions himself properly, sets his eye on a spot at the woodsy trunk of the spruce almost directly parallel to his line of sight. The second year cocks his wrist lightly, leans back ever so slightly, all the while never breaking stare. Then his carpus flicks, and the disc is off, flying through the air in a portentous sort of way.

If only Rafal had checked to see if there is a student strolling just behind the cluster from where he had let go of the treacherous frisbee of death, he would have found the answer is affirmative.

And as it turns out, much to Rafal’s soon to come chagrin, it is ever so easy for frisbees to hit unsuspecting girls on early morning walks.

Interacting with @Avery Gray

Interacting with: @Rafal Devereux Mentioning: N/A Date: Weekend in October

Word Count: 626

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Avery knew she shouldn't have stopped to try and see whatever creature had flashed across her vision before retreating back into the depths of the forest. Whatever it had been was long gone by now. Probably midway into the deepest part of the forest considering how quickly it had bolted across the grounds. She had seen it too late. Actually, she hadn't even realized it was there until it hit her. Hard. Fangs biting into her skin. She didn't cry out. No. She was strong, but the pain was gripping her as the fangs dug deeper into her arm. The pain and the realization of what had hit her reminded her of a memory. She should have at least tried ripping the frisbee out, but the memory haunted her. It was one she hadn't thought about for a long time, but for some reason the pain of the fanged frisbee digging deeper towards bone reminded her of it. It was early September. Her and her family had just celebrated a joint birthday party for herself and Dylan a few days prior. The sun was beginning to set. Casting orange and gold hues reflecting off the leaves of the trees. It was as if the whole forest was ablaze as Avery, Dylan, and her grandfather were exploring a new part of the woods that was on their neighbor's property. Their neighbor had reported strange sounds not too far from their house. Avery's grandfather, ever the mazoologist even in retirement, stepped up to the investigation of whatever creature or being was causing the racket. Of course he had brought his two newly seven year old grandchildren along with him. Avery, her cousin Dylan, and her grandfather had always been a close working team. Even in dangerous situations they could be found working together on trying to end the problem. Nothing could be found as they walked. Not a print, piece of hair, nothing. Not a single piece of evidence leading to who or what the culprit was. They had begun poking fun at each other upon finding a mysterious looking stick in the shape of a "Y" when it happened. A scream, or a screech erupted in the woods. Avery couldn't place her finger on which one it was as she covered her ears tightly upon first hearing the sound. She closed her eyes tightly. Not even sure where she was as she tried to block the sound. Then something hit her. Hard. She was knocked to the ground as pain filled her and the hot rush of blood brought her back to her senses. She could hear someone calling out her name and pressure applied to her. Though she couldn't place a finger on who was calling to her as she lay there. Even with her hands off her ears. Her eyes became heavy as she tried to blink them open. Only blobs showing in her vision as black began to creep into the edges. The only thing she could really see was red. Blood. It was then she realized it was her own. She was bleeding, but from where? Was it caused by whatever hit her? Avery never found out what happened. She blacked out from the pain before she could find out. Ever since that day Dylan and her grandfather had never talked about it. Hence why she had never remembered until then. All she could hope was that someone was nearby. She needed help. And soon. Otherwise she would pass out again probably from the pain or maybe even the loss of blood. She didn't dare look how much damage the frisbee that had finally fallen to the ground beside her had done. She knew it was bad just from the pain filling her.

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