Hunter.. YOU FAILED pv

Archer Theodore Duncan was fed up. He was fed up of school, he was fed up of life, and he was fed up of his History of Magic teacher. His lessons were shit, his assignments were shit, and in general, he was just a shitty person. Archer was wasting his intelligence to deduct he was a drunkard. He was wasting his intelligence to deduct that he did not deserve to exist on this planet. And, most ridiculous of all, Break kept, of all pets imaginable, a goldfish. Named after himself. Pathetic narcissist.

Even his name was ridiculous. Elmo was a red puppet in Muggle television.

From the side of his eye he saw Elmo approach his direction, and instinctively, he recoiled. The action certainly had nothing to do with fear but everything with disgust. He scowled. Whoever appointed this man child to be his teacher was even more fucked up than he was.

“Do it again and I shred it.” The words pulled Archer out of his thoughts, but not his hatred. His eyes shifted upwards ever so slightly to see the figure of Elmo Break himself. Black hair, pale skin, brown eyes, Archer was far too tired of his appearance by now. At around six foot six he towered over Archer’s thirteen year old stature yet that was far from an aspect of intimidation, even for the grown man that was walking towards him. As he stopped by his desk and spoke those obnoxious words, Archer let out an inward groan and cursed his luck. Yet the facade of the perfect (or otherwise) student did not crack as he finished the last word he his notebook and slammed it shut.

Archer glanced up and smirked slowly — he had been waiting for this moment ever since Kennedy was exchanged for this son of a bitch. Eyes shadowed by his hair and the soft furrowing of his brows, they glinted as they caught the light, a brief millisecond where the deep wells of brown gave way to flecks of gold. He tip of his lips extended into a grin, wide, boyish, mischievous, for once as if he was enjoying himself. It was a look of a boy amused — perhaps he was truly sitting in front of a puppet show, and Elmo was the main character.

Pressing his hand down on the assignment with the utmost casualness, he drew it towards his side of the desk and turned it to face himself. His smile did not falter at the large words of “FAILED” scribbled across it in red ink and horrid handwriting (though he was not much better to judge). His eyes skimmed over his work, of a quality high enough to deserve an O yet his potential was slipped through Elmo’s intoxicated eyes. Honestly, if he were wasted as his professor, he would have been troubled with the same predicament. As he finished glancing across the parchment paper, he leaned back in his seat and whistled with as much disrespect as a student could muster. He was yet to speak any words, but his eyes seemed to have reassured: worry not professor, I shall shred it myself.

He no longer cared enough not to do it. It would have been out of spite anyways.

Finally picking up the piece of paper, his eyes raked over his work for a final time, not a shred of remorse in them as his hands did not even settle with reluctance at the top edge of the paper. He could produce something better with his eyes closed, and whatever he wrote, it would certainly eclipse what Elmo Break taught in his ridiculous classes. It took some strength to rip the parchment, made out of the material that it was, but no mental fortitude was required in the act as it relented easily between his arms. His grin spread, and as it was ripped in half, he folded them together and tore again from the other side. And again. And again. And again. Until his words were even less legible and the paper was a mess on his desk.

He glanced up at the professor again, as if to ask: are you happy now?

Archer shifted in his seat, and cocked his head in challenge; he wanted to see if Professor Elmo Break, in all his glory and honour, would accept it. To see if he would be bested, if he would fall at the hands of a mere thirteen year old. Dipping in his toes to the notion of being a teenage dirtbag, to Archer, Break would have been a coward for stepping back and leaving him be, but all the same, he would have been even more petty and childish than he already was for engaging in such a fight with a student. Finally, Archer spoke, and in the most condescending voice humanly imaginable, he asked, “Sir, are you literate?”

He watched curiously as the professor simply stared at him with a face as unresponsive as a statue, the only reaction a mere, unsophisticated grunt at his question. As the professor blinked, as if he had not quite understood the question, Archer blinked back, fervently, more times than was appropriate, yet enough to denote that he was putting up a gauze of faux innocence, a little puppy glancing up at his owner when he had done nothing wrong. Hiding a smirk when Professor Break approached, planting his palms firmly on his desk, Archer said, words dripping with disdain, “You are invading my personal space.”

As break murmured the words towards Archer, there was no scent more pungent than the alcohol tinging his breath. Archer himself had picked up the bottle before, but surely Elmo was too broke to afford such luxuries. Instead, he must have drunk out of cans — what a disgusting man. Despite his attempts to soak his words in venom, even they drowned as what prevailed was that scent of fire, unbearably close to Archer’s face. It reeked of self-pity, it reeked of Elmo’s pathetic existence, and Archer could not stand one more sentence out of his mouth. “Before you continue,” Archer said, cutting him short, “Take a step back or I will force you to take one for you.” Would he win in a duel? No. Was he reckless enough to try? Hell yes.

“I do not like treating children who think they're stuck up teenage dirtbags that lack the ability to possess a better name.”

Archer almost let out a very audible scoff at that, body shifting as it convulsed in laughter he desperately attempted to hold down. Was this a confrontation or a comedy show? A stuck up teenage dirtbag was a ridiculous notion. He had never had the intention of becoming such a pathetic archetype, and his arrogance was far from it. His superiority, his self-entitled attitude over the professor was deserved, from his every word to his every action, from the lack of disrespect to the ever present disdain. Had he not summarised Elmo’s existence for him?

Yet the second notion was even more ridiculous, if that was even possible. So, this entire time when he had been receiving Trolls he did not deserve, it was out of Elmo’s hatred for his name? A perfectly fine name, a name he was perfectly proud of, Archer was fairly certain he did not want him to go into onomastics. Yet he had never, in his thirteen years of life, heard anything more absurd, so absolutely laughable that a person would discriminate based on a name. Some comical one he could understand, but his? Never. In fact, Archer could no longer control himself, and a short, breathy laugh escaped him as he clutched at his belly. Glancing up at the professor, he pronounced each word between more laughter with the utmost stress on each, “What the fuck.”

It was evident that this pathetic excuse of a professor was merely looking for an excuse to ruin Archer’s academic records. He groaned dramatically as he slid down in his chair, a gesture that was clearly orchestrated. Archer could not think of any reason any sane person — not that Elmo could be categorised as such — would do this to a thirteen year old but one: jealousy. How pitiable it was for a twenty five year old to be jealous of one twelve years younger, a mere child. Yet it was true that Archer, even Archer, had so many qualities that outshone him. For one, if he was given reins to teach this class, he would have done a job far better than him. Even disregarding that, at least he was no bug on the floor, not the disgusting Gregor Samsa Elmo had turned into.

It was evident furthermore that this pathetic excuse of a man was acting in such a way out of his own self-deprecation. He must have thought himself the most piteous creature on this earth to find himself tormenting children. As if his actions could even be deemed as torment, a playground bully at most and not a well written one. Archer smirked, eyes sparkling with a mixture of amusement and mischief. Archer had touched the troughs of existence, yet even he was not Elmo Break. He was a man who had failed completely in life, lost; in his eyes were nothing but absolute despair.

Asking slowly, enunciating each word with a stressed diction as if he was talking to a toddler, Archer asked, deprecation spreading across his words, “Is this what you do in your free time? Attempt to degrade children just to make you feel better?” What man would do this?

“I will only give you an Outstanding if you cry. So cry you little boy.”

Archer laughed again, and this time he could not hold the deep sound back as he chuckled. Professor Elmo Break was hardly a threat, simply a source of hilarity. When the man said no other words, Archer stared at him blankly for a few seconds, realising that he was actually serious. The revelation only made him let out another sharp bout of laughter. He was so pathetic Archer’s writer was already getting tired of finding synonyms for the word. Glancing down at the pile of ripped up paper below him, Archer started with evident sarcasm, “Oh boohoo—Give me that Troll.” The pivot was instantaneous, without a pause or beat in between with its orchestrated nature. He would rather have a T on his report card than entertain what sick, twisted notion of this thing that was barely a person.

All this time, the ball was in Archer’s court. Until he was thrown to the back of the room.

Crashing into the desks and chairs of the classroom, he groaned, and this time, there was nothing feigned about it. Pain shocked up his veins, and his back had absorbed the full force of the impact. On the plain floor of the duelling piste, it would have been no impact out of place, yet with the desks that had left his limbs in a tangled, broken mess and the rising frustration coursing through Archer, it left distinct bruises over his body. He grimaced, with little reaction at first, and could only regulate his breath. As it returned to its normal pace, he glanced in Break’s direction, fully expecting him to be smiling at his misery. “Sadist,” he hissed.

Brushing himself up, he stood, and casted without second though, “Flipendo!”

He smiled as it hit.

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