prelude : an omen, a letter
Guy Fawkes Night was a night Astra looked forward to at home. Not that she had ever really been allowed to participate, Morella was far too anxious and sensible for such things, but the fireworks were always pleasant and the general excitement of it all was quite the contaigion. The affair was a mixed bag at Hogwarts- no fireworks, sometimes a few sparks spells out on the grounds- and there was always plenty of mischief to go around so nothing special there, not to mention Samhain being a huge deal.
She had her breakfast tea across from Roderick who ate enough for the both of them with plate piled high. They still held to their mealtime ritual in the mornings, even if Astra wasn't a breakfast person. It was usually the only contact they had during the day, which was fine. He used to be her sole source of social life, but as her social net had grown she had become distanced from her brother. The snake had often wondered exactly why, but Roderick supplied sensible answers: they were in different years, different houses, she was always busy with sports and her new friends (some of which he didn't approve of, but never had Astra sought that in all her thirteen years and that wasn't about to change). Reasonable explanations, but never good ones.
Anyway. The mealtime ritual which she had insisted upon when she was eleven and lonely in this new world survived still, even if only for breakfast. The siblings were not totally estranged. "Look, Professor Nenovsky taught us tessomancy yesterday," she said, preparing to down her cup. "I'm gonna try it again."
Roderick rolled his eyes, starting some spiel about how all that was rubbish just because he wasn't good at it but Astra held up a hand. "My question: what does today hold for us?"
The ritual was careful, the tea quickly disappearing until only a drop or so remained. "And with the left, spin," she narrated, spinning the cup by the handle thrice. "And flip, and... Voilà." There were her tea leaves, ready for the reading.
Roderick rolled his eyes. Astra mimicked him before concentrating on the cup before her.
A singular shape stared up at her. Astra blinked. Still there.
The Grim.
"What the hell? This is- this can't be right, I'm not living in a cliché." Her shoulders dropped, all excitement left. The Grim was a terrible reading, but Astra couldn't help but think she'd done it wrong, or was misreading the shape. Roderick's commentary on the misleading nature of "pseudomagic" wasn't helping. "Come look. Oh, come off it and just look?"
Roderick leaned over the table. "Yeah, it looks like a dog," he offered. Unhelpful.
"Yeah, and the dog means death, Rick, so could you maybe try and activate that braincell and think about why in the hell today will hold death for us?" Roderick opened his mouth, probably to dispute the certainty of her claim, when a familiar hoot caused them both to look up before Decem crash landed into the table between them, letter clutched in his talons.
Roderick fished a couple of owl treats out of his satchel, Decem was still young and learning- Novem had only been retired right before school started again- while Astra extracted the letter from his grasp. "Ministry seal, looks to be resealed. Addressed to Dad," she noted aloud before cracking the red wax. Her eyes skipped straight past the address and to the letter itself.
Roderick froze. Astra's breath hitched. She read it over again, silently, before clearing her throat to continue even as her chest felt like it was being squeezed.To Mr. Hyperion Norrick and Family,
It is with our deepest condolences we regret to inform you of the passing of your sister, Astra Norrick Lerian, in the line of duty.
Her eyes began to blur. She caught her mother's handwriting at the bottom of the page and zeroed in, voice hardly a shaking whisper at this point.The full details of her passing and the events leading up to the incident are unknown at this time. Following procedure, a investigation has been launched by the Department of Mysteries in conjunction with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. We appreciate your cooperation in this investigation and once again extend our sympathy to you and your family.
Astra's fingers held the crisp white paper taut as she stared at the letters which were supposed to form words but weren't really doing their job right now. Aunt Aces is dead. The scrape of a bench being pushed back caught her attention. "Rick?" Her brother got up and walked off. Astra stood, the squeezing of her ribcage getting tighter and tighter. "Roderick, wait!" He didn't even spare a glance.Roderick and Astra,
Keep focused, don't worry about us. Your dad and uncle are arranging everything. Aunt Aces already had all she needed put together. We will be okay. Come home this weekend. Love you, be safe, make good choices.
Mum
Astra looked back down at the letter falling from her hand. At the cup of tea. She swept it aside, off the table, letting it shatter, but not moving further except to sit. Heavily. As if magnetized to the bench. Aunt Aces is dead. She buried her head in her hands, the darkness of closed eyes oppressive, struggling to breath against the skin of her palms. Something hot settled below her sternum, something heavy behind her eyes, something took Astra's conscious mind and pulled it away from her body, from the emotions rising that she didn't have time to name.
dead.
solo-ish. open only to people i have rp-ed with before. please owl to join. i reserve the right to deny requests.
prelude : an omen, a letter
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Banner by Alan Vanes
──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────Calming Presence ─ Astra & Figaro
His presence simply puts others at ease, his allies better able to focus their spells and skills.
 | fNPC Polyjuice Genetic Donor: Caelum Sheehan (Ravenclaw Y5) |
Once he had started to learn how to put aside the discomforting fact that he was not going to be looked at the same way as he would have been if he was wearing his own face--a fact that was the reason he had taken to the whole practice of potioneering the pharmacopeia's polyjuice recipe--slipping in among the rest of the crowd was remarkably soothing. He didn't feel the pressure of hungry eyes, of the heavy burden of reputations on his shoulders. In this state, Piérre was vanished and was instead replaced with... mundane. No inferiority, no superiority--simply present.
That being said, he simply had to get out of the habit of accidentally swiping skin cells and hair from those whose eyesights were far less sharp than his own. It was starting to give him a very physical headache, both from the frustrations of knowing that his restructured eyes were failing to focus on an image with as much acuity as he would have liked, and also from the fact that the glasses that he had... ahem... acquired at some point or another were--while prescription in nature--rarely the prescription that the genuine person would have used to an actual effect.
Figaro was lingering somewhere nearby, away from his master for the moment despite recognizing his scent through the facade, and Piérre himself was perched at the Hufflepuff table, as far away as he could feasibly place himself from the Ravenclaw table, where the real person he had taken the face he wore now called his house. Sky blue eyes darted there every now and again, making sure that others' eyes were not glancing sidelong his way in case they did recognize a fellow of their house even despite the alterations to both wardrobe and appearance that Piérre had taken.
"Caelum" was the boy's actual name that he had heard when Piérre had completed the orchestration of a little "brush and go" interaction with the kid to obtain the donation for his polyjuice, and Piérre had taken efforts to make himself look as pseudo-Caelum as he could get: Caelum liked to comb his hair back with some slight gel that enabled one to see the lines of the comb in the hairstyle, Piérre had elected to demonstrate how nice a bedhead could look in ginger; Caelum wore square glasses that were bifocal in nature, Piérre only had some round wire-rims from his little act of acquisition; Caelum proudly wore his Ravenclaw vestures and blushed a vibrant red that made his freckles disappear whenever he got frustrated or overwhelmed by a fluke, Piérre elected to pull an outfit from his personal closet (which worked because Caelum was just scrawny and gangly enough that the outfit didn't look entirely dumpy and also since he was additionally just short of hitting his next growth spurt).
There were a few other small details that he had acted upon altering, but they were mostly unremarkable and did not really have any particular effect on his overall countenance other than personal preference. However... there was the chrysoprase crystal about his neck, which always seemed to glow with the nature of the venom inside of it--the smallest marker to serve as a "tell" to those that cared enough to realize that it was in fact the Britalian hiding in plain sights.
Owls came to deliver their goods, and Piérre sat there, kicking his feet under the table in idle disinterest. If something weird was going to happen to him today, then now would be the time for it... but for the most part he had few communiques in the morning. Few contacts had a habit of doing that to a person, besides the odd letter now and again from Mathilda and Romeo--one concerning his well-being and advice on how to make his way now that he was going to be graduating soon (which were left on "read" until he worked the will to reply with a generally milquetoast feeling on it all) and the other about recent life events and a thanking for the additional doses of Wolfsbane even though it "wasn't necessary" and he was "being well-taken care of in regards to" it. Piérre knew that his stuff--well, Gitano's, anyhow--was better than the commercial product, though.
Don't ask him how he knew.
But the crash of shattering glass has a habit of cutting through the ambiance, a nature of its that drew the eyes and keen ears of those that had come to learn to register such sound and categorize it as a noise of interest. Piérre was one such of those people, and head snapped towards the sound with a sudden rising in hackles as blue eyes scanned and then settled on the source. He did not see the shattered pieces, lost to the Great Hall's grand floors, but he did see a familiar redheaded Slytherin--and the passive (as well as active) body-language that she expressed.
Astra.
Blue eyes blinked for a second before he unconsciously adjusted the glasses and then swept both legs over the bench to stand and then briskly travel. Each step was almost a tiptoe, like a doe choosing each hoof-fall with deep care before dedication. The care turned gradually into a near-traipse, a flurry of staccato footfalls that whisked him to the veridian table and into the fluid action of a yew wand conjuring the shards together into a unified state with a twisting of his wrist. "Reparo."
The repaired teacup was placed on the table mouth down with a dulled clink, and Piérre took the place that was across from Astra (Roderick's, though he wouldn't know that besides the fact that the seat was still warm) with both his hands in his lap as he leaned slightly forwards towards her. His head tipped to one side, and then after a pause he tentatively reached towards Astra's arm to pull her out of her reverie... but stopped just short. Yes... he knew this posturing, but he did not know what would help.
There was only a moment of hesitation, though, and he steeled himself--hand coming to rest on her arm as a touch of a presence. "Usually my tea hurts me before I go around hurting it." He jested quietly and under his breath to her alone. "Biting teacups deserve all the hate they get. What did this one do to you?"
If Astra lowered her hands, his other hand's fingers would tangle around the necklace chain and cup the chrysoprase jewel in it. Behind the masque, it would be him.
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@Astra Norrick
Jesters do oft prove prophets. 𓀚
I am the brother account to Romeo Marchonné & Zyva Hel Fae Skógrwight