Unexpected, Never Unwelcome PV Rafal Devereux

Dinnertime at Hogwarts might just be one of Rafal Devereux’s favourite spectacles to date. For truly, it can be described as nothing short of such - spectacular. While undoubtedly exceedingly pleasant and more than proportionate to the level of coziness expected for a boarding school run by people who hold the ability to make their wildest dreams come true with a wave of a stick (just to clarify, home furnishing dreams), the congenial castle does find itself often privy to, what can only be expressed as - chaos.

It is throughly no shortcoming on behalf of the adult staff. The headmaster and professors are for the most part, suitably masterful at their respective fields, and take well initiative in the duties corresponding to their positions. However, the seemingly simply task of maintaining order becomes a whole other matter when the masses to be overseen in question, are many hundreds of teenage witches and wizards, whose very nature is to do all they can in rebelling against any form of authority whatsoever. And very often, their best effort is nothing to scoff at. After all, it is the place’s entire purpose to teach its students magical proficiency, and succeeding in this task may in some instances, be a double edged sword.

Though Rafal is speaking as if he himself has hands completely clean in the issue. While the Slytherin does like to think himself awfully well-reasoned for the most part, the fact remains that he is a twelve year old boy. And twelve year old boys, in anyone’s experience, are quite recurrently the ones most prone to poor judgement and rash decision-making. No, he has not done anything too imprudent thus far. But ruling out the possibility of such a thing never occurring in his tenure here at school? Despite what he may inform, most ardently, to those who ask, the answer to that inquiry is undoubtedly never.

But he is drifting away from the topic at hand. In a most peculiar observation, Rafal has concluded from diligent survey over his time here, that mealtimes at Hogwarts differ rather substantially in each of their natures. First, breakfast. What they call the indispensable fare of the day, yet in the second year’s experience, it is anything but. Of course, the phenomenon is understandable. One of the adverse effects of constructing an institute serving a second goal as its pupils main residence, ensuring every single soul within its walls wakes up on time for each and every event on the schedule is nearly unfeasible. Sure, some individuals possess a fair amount of self regulation, but all? Quite possibly nothing more than a fever dream.

Funnily enough, the meal in question’s successor is not wholly as drastically disparate to each another as one may think. The deduction did render Rafal rather flummoxed when he first reached it, yet is certainly true. Lunch is a time of scrambling and scampering and making haste, either rushing off for the next item on the itinerary or making a desperate last-ditch effort to scribble out a paltry excuse for an assignment. The Slytherin finds that his fellow classmates do habitually have awful memory for anything relating to academics. He suspects that it is not incidental.

And, of course, they arrive at the star of the show. Dinner-time. The very name of the period riveting, is it not? At last, all those pesky and infernal items on the agenda are over and done, never needed to be brought to the front of one’s mind ever again (or until tomorrow, at the very least), and it is fine time for self refreshment! Nothing looming threateningly over the horizon, no fears waiting at every twist and turn of the corridor, hidden in every knock and cranny of the stone walls. At least, it is the case for a few hours, until the whole doomed cycle must repeat once again, but since when have students been known for their foresight? Better enjoy the good times while they last. That is the philosophy of most every young soul under the great castle roofs. So they arrive at the hall for the third time, yet this last trip is far different from previous journeys. It is finally loose and amiable once more, all the seeping tension and rigidity from before drained away. People can finally chat and laugh freely, without the crushing weight of a soon to come hated class or professor or mandrakes. Every which way one looks, there are less to none scraggly brawls or hot-headed arguments, the tightly wounded states of every party changed to the very opposite. It is truly an invigorating juncture.

And lucky Rafal, this very moment just so happens to be that fateful stage of the day! Lessons had been nothing to much dwell on, as routine and unremarkable as can be. There was a brief stint where some idiot in the hallway transfigured a few of the suits of armour lining the corridors into coconuts, which then subsequently cascaded down the floor and tripped over many poor unsuspecting victims - Rafal included - but that is over now, and no lasting harm is done. The Slytherin cannot help but take a deep breath as he walks into the bustling scene of the great hall, smiles as the smell of another extraordinary spread wafts through the air. Say what you will about the morality of the overall position of house elves in the wizarding world, they sure know how to cook. As much as it abashes Rafal to think this, he so gets it.

As he makes his way further into the grand space, Rafal looks around for a suitable spot to settle down and tuck in. As a rule, it is perhaps technically expected for the snake to sit at his own house table, but frankly? Nobody bloody cares. The divides between houses are not quite thoroughly non-existent just yet, but for the most part, mealtimes are an uncommonly peaceful period in the otherwise hectic institution. Very few bother themselves with paltry inter-house squabbles.

Thus he is scanning merely for a suitably tranquil spot, located at any area rather than simply at the furthest right-hand side. To aid in his search, Rafal begins making his way around the hall, heading up and down the spaces in between benches in his hunt. A hand grips the strap of his satchel, slung over shoulder. Not going to lie, he is rather hungry. With this mind, his pace unconsciously quickens.

Suddenly, the second year’s gaze falls on a most astounding sight. In a most unanticipated stupefaction, he abruptly stops smack in his tracks. He blinks once, twice, in a somewhat comedic manner. No. Wait. Surely, it cannot be. Did Rafal hit his head on the cauldron during Potions? Now that he thinks about it, he had felt a little dizzy upon exit. At the time, the Slytherin had attributed the fact to fumes from his suspiciously ginger concoction, but this explanation does make a lot of sense. Or one of those coconuts from before. He had stepped on one and taken quite a tumble, it is not far-fetched to think his mental facilities may have been scrambled. He frowns, taking a step forward to closer peer at the victim of his scrutiny. No. Certainly not. But the girl looks so much like… "Lucille?"

But it is indisputably her. Dark mocha hair, fancifully large eyes a rich chocolate, skin tanned with the mark of someone who has undoubtedly spent a fair share of their life under the sun. And she is right there, heapings of mashed potato drowning in gravy laden heavy on the plate before her, and Rafal cannot seem to comprehend this seemingly simple fact. Lucille? Here? At Hogwarts? With him? Eating dinner? Bloody hell, Rafal is surprised the castle hasn’t freakin’ blown up yet. Because surely, that is the only reasonable next course of happening after a revelation such as this. There are so many facets to this current situation he has somehow found himself in, which simply do not add up, whatsoever. And in each mental calculation, the world blows up. With no exception. And no survivors.

Interacting with @Lucille Rosenhart

date 11/11/25

word count 863

outfit ⁺₊ ☀︎ ⁺₊

speech #8C2626

mentions @Rafal Devereux

notes xxx

Good food can often be nothing short of a spell, enchanting and captivating, perhaps the best way to distract and occupy someone like Lucille. The gravy was decadent, the chicken soft, and the potatoes contained just the right amount of butter, so creamy they almost melted in her mouth. Often, when Lucille was seated with other people, the way she ate could often be described as dainty, not for any conscious reason. The uncalled for elegance typically stemmed from a desire to speak more than eat, which meant the girl took smaller bites that she finished just as soon as they went into her mouth, before exploding into a flurry of words that she often could not stop. However, when it came to Hogwarts food, it seemed her typical mannerisms would exit her body, instead leaving her with an immense desire to eat as fast as she could, savoring every bite. She would forget about the friends she had been waiting for and slip into a trance, a bit unaware of her surroundings.

And it was this unaware demeanor that was broken when a boy's voice softly spoke her name. There was something about the voice that made her freeze, swallowing the bite of mashed potatoes and silently thanking herself for not having eaten the chicken at that moment, which she would surely have choked on in her surprise. Because it wasn't just any voice. It was Rafal, and she knew it even before she turned to face him.

The sight of him did not make his presence any more believable. Quite the contrary, in fact. She seemed to pause, as if examining him carefully. Was he this tall? Were his eyes strangely brighter? Or maybe his piercing gaze upon her was just a little bit different? Lucile scrambled to find differences within him, as if convincing herself that this wasn't the boy she knew, perhaps a hallucination. How could it be? she thought to herself, although a little voice in her mind told her that it was, in fact, quite a likely scenario.

The last time she had seen Rafal was a year ago, when him and his mother had visited them, celebrating his letter to Hogwarts. He had then set off to the school, and the pair hadn't seen each other since. She had known that it was likely for them to bump into each other and, although that had always been a welcome thought, it had always seemed out of reach. And, since she had made it a month into Hogwarts without a glimpse of him, it had seemed more and more unrealistic by the day.

And yet, here he was.

"Rafal?" she said finally, her voice rising up at the end like a question, although it wasn't meant to be. Did she sound nervous? Or unsure? She scrambled to say more, trying to dispel the impression her first word must have had. "What are you doing here?" Even worse. Her soft tone made it clear the question was not ill-intentioned, but Lucille cringed at her words nonetheless.

Her words made her remember something from the summer before Hogwarts. Muggle wishmaking customs. Or a specific one, to be precise. Lucky numbers. Her father would tell her that, should you glance at the clock at exactly 11:11, you were to make a wish. Neither of them believed it, of course, but it had been a fun custom to uphold. Lucille, in a moment of nervousness and dread, had wished to find someone she knew in Hogwarts, hoping a familiar face would help her get settled in. Now, she had been settled for a while, but the familiar face had arrived nonetheless.

As she recalled this, a subtle smile spread upon her face, and, for a second, she seemed to be somewhere else. The fleeting moment was shortlived, and she was once more in the Great Hall, seated before Rafal. The inital surprise had worn off and, now, a bubble of excitement welled up inside her, threatening to burst.

She sprang up, facing Rafal, her eyes bright with an expression that looked almost like wonder. "I mean, not that I'm not glad you're here. I really am! But you were the last thing I expected to see right now." She giggled a little, before gesturing to the seat next to her. Lucille would often exude a confident air about her, and it was quite clear that she already expected Rafal to join her. "We haven't seen each other in so long! I have so much to tell you, and so much I'd like to ask about you."

She was buzzing, with excitement, of course, but a slight bit of nervousness, too. Anyone she knew would say that was quite out of character for her; Lucille was often one of the more bubbly, confident people in the room, but when it came to Rafal, sometimes that strange feeling would creep in, and she could never quite identify what it meant. Nervous? Her? Simply by speaking to someone? Certainly not; that didn't sound right at all. And so she would brush it off, laugh, shake her head to clear her mind, and continue.