26 Mar 2020, 01:56
Rebirth and Remorse
Routines, rituals one may say, were a salient aspect of enjoyment to a misery-ridden life. Consistency was important to everyone, providing a sense of comfort and safety in a way unique to each individual. Even without being mindful of it, every student at Hogwarts followed some sort of schedule: they went to their classes at specified times, had their meals the same hour each day, and those were only the bare minimum easily described. Say a class was postponed, celebration would erupt among the attendees, but questions would ensue as that excitement evaporated. Why break the schedule after such stability had been set in stone? Beheading the idea of ritualism among impressionable preteens would create pandemonium out of nothingness; even as a master of chaos, the discomfort would be immense for even Persephone. For, she had a ritual of her own to maintain.
Receive, don’t read, discard.
To her thorough disappointment, Persy was identical to her peers, but only in the sense of the burdens they bore, their paths imperfect and plaited with mistakes, fallen limbs and hand-prints ingrained in the mud until the rain washed such horrible memories away. On regrettable occasions, her ritual was defied, replaced with one with no dependability and very troubling results. Receive, read, reply. Receive, read, discard. All the options mixed and matched, such minimal changes that warped such dependability into a volcanic explosion of foreign emotion, a tsunami dooming her to water-filled lungs. Dealing with things that weren’t understood was never ideal for a warrior of any kind, for one was to know their enemy’s most intimate habits. Leaving such variables in a state of assumption was hazardous, more so than spilled toxic waste. Even the fumes are lethal to innocent bystanders. Risks such as that could not be taken today, the sacred ritual would be preserved for Persephone’s own sake.
Climbing the spiral staircase that led to the first landing of the Owlery, the Slytherin’s white skin became a habitat for goosebumps that ran up and down her arms. For latening March, the weather had ceased to grow warmer as the Earth declared, even routines like that being forsaken, releasing a certain paranoia in those who resented change. The vacant windows allowed the wind to flow in, the loose ends of her blonde hair tangling in each other, as if working as shields from the chill. Persy’s green eyes found the vacant bird-bath, which upheld its infinite condition, untouched by the owls as if it were cursed. Overtaken by sudden urges, the girl waved her fingers through the shallow water, watching it ripple and shift under her influence. To be so impressionable, defenseless to any takers, was an enigma that would hopefully never warrant empathy.
A familiar chestnut colored owl arrived through one of the arcs, the flap of its wings and the warping of sound waves in the wind breaking her away from her paralyzed state. The snake’s fingers pulled away from the fountain, shaking away the excess water and quickly working to release the letter from the owl, a nearly unnoticeable tremble to her movements. The deliverer herself, a typical school owl likely of tawny origin, escaped Persephone’s grasp as soon as the exchange concluded; the pureblood didn’t possess a pet of her own, merely working with school-provided assets until that phase of her life concluded. It wasn’t denied this often resulted in an inconvenience for the blonde, but that was hardly the bird’s fault.
There was little doubt what the letter contained, as if the whole arrangement was transparent to her eyes, yet a despicable sense of hope coursed through her veins like a toxin. Lies and ill-intentions would contaminate what could’ve been a loving message from home, reducing it to nothing more than a plea, a terribly-timed reminder of a history she wished to bury six feet below the path he had paved. The ritual, a methodical routine composed of safety, would protect her from this bullet and prevent further damage to a scratched disk, already incapable of its purpose. Faulty, as if some kind of warranty could be put into act to accommodate the Earth with a functioning version of Persephone.
Her small fingers found the top of the unopened letter, separating slowly as to watch the pain split into even halves. A slight tear formed at the top, the unraveling parchment flowing with the will of the wind, when a minuscule trait called her attention, ceasing the defacing of the letter. The first-year’s name was inscribed along the top, not out of the ordinary, but what struck her was the handwriting; where it was usually scratchy and illegible, the purposeless word had been handled with care. Effort where no effort had ever been, a poor attempt at calligraphy, but an excelling try at catching her softening gaze.
The parchment unwinded with ease, as if it felt this would occur, like a fisherman awaiting the tug on his line, ready for the reeling. It wasn’t until that moment the girl felt the hook in her mouth. A lure fabricated by someone of his intellect [or lack thereof] had ensnared Persy, a shameful admission of ignorance. She scanned over the note, peeling the letters written from darkness apart, searching for a message aside from the one so clearly enunciated. The ritual, there for her own protection, had been defied and the sword plunged into her chest, vacant of love and hope. The faith once held closely was abandoned, a minor spot on the floor dampening from a fallen tear, a display of humanity to be extinguished upon birth.
What Persy had presumed to be beautiful, cared for and handled like a cracked glass ornament, was nothing more than a trap, baited by replenishing that forsaken desire for consistency. The note was short, but said so many things at once, messages overlapping until words were indistinguishable and blurry. Her grip had loosened with her will to exist, letting the ripped parchment fall to the floor, a few words almost unreadable from the smear of her tears, continuing to form against her wishes.
The blonde moved to sit on the bottom steps of the staircase that would carry her to the second landing, a hand covering her mouth as if a sound were to spontaneously burst. Sobs were inaudible, tears like raindrops falling from a solemn cloud as, for once, she allowed something to show. It would be the last time this would be permitted, this display of human nature in such an open environment. Forever after, the door would be closed, deadbolts and chains locking those sentiments away. For a moment, she was thankful for the vacancy of the Owlery; it was only her, a million owls perched above, and the ghost of her father lingering on her shoulders.
Reducio
The letter reads as follows:
Persephone,
I don't know what you mean. I don't know why you're being this way. It's dramatic, Perse. Just come home when you get the chance and I can explain things. I've missed you anyway.
Maybe one of these days you'll get over what you think happened and stuff will clear up. I have a lot of fun things for us to do this summer, if you'll let us.
You're coming home this summer.
Dad.
Persephone,
I don't know what you mean. I don't know why you're being this way. It's dramatic, Perse. Just come home when you get the chance and I can explain things. I've missed you anyway.
Maybe one of these days you'll get over what you think happened and stuff will clear up. I have a lot of fun things for us to do this summer, if you'll let us.
You're coming home this summer.
Dad.
Last edited by Persephone Barret on 15 Jun 2020, 21:55, edited 1 time in total.
Don't talk like one of them, you're not. Even if you'd like to be. - Heath Ledger
Sta: 9 | Eva: 5 | Str: 7 | Wis: 7 | Arc: 5 | Acc: 7
26 Mar 2020, 11:06
Rebirth and Remorse
Interacting with @Persephone BarretIvy's older sister had eloped five years ago with a Muggle boy, leaving nothing but a letter sitting on Ivy's dresser. The two girls, despite the large age gap, were extremely, close, and Ivy had felt the loss of her sister more than anyone else in her family. She had grown to hate her over the next few years - not because Lillian had corrupted the pureness of the Bellamy bloodline, but because that letter was the last time the young girl had heard from her older sister. Ivy thought that her sister had forgotten about her, and soon tried to do the same. It didn't work - although she tried her best not to speak of Lillian, she was always present in her thoughts.
It was an understatement to say that Ivy was shocked when a letter from Lillian had arrived for her via an unfamiliar, tawny owl a few days ago. It was most unlike the Bellamy family owl, which had shiny black feathers and serious eyes. The letter had asked how their younger sister Alison was, talked about how life with "Noah" was, then rambled on and on about how wonderful Hogwarts was and the many experiences Lillian had there - a perfectly normal letter had the older girl been keeping in touch with Ivy prior to Hogwarts. As Ivy had read on and on, her anger kept rising. How dare Lillian act as though nothing had changed since she had left? How dare she act as though she had been there for the past five years? Her last sentence was rather confusing: Please respond to this one - you haven't to any of my others. There had been no other letters. Not one.
Ivy had wanted to tear it up then and there, but decided against it. Some stupid, needy part of her wanted to hold onto this letter.
She'd had no idea how to respond to it, of course. How did you respond to the letter that your blood traitor sister wrote after five years of no word from her? Finally, Ivy had scrawled down a sharp, short reply that she hoped would cut right through Lillian and make her cry tears of devastation, just as she had when she discovered her big sister gone that rainy morning.
Now, walking slowly up to the Owlery to find an owl to send it to her, Ivy wondered if she was doing the right thing. Her parents wouldn't approve, of course, and that meant Alison would. Ivy wondered if Lillian even deserved a reply. Perhaps she should wait five years to respond, just as she had. An amused smile crept onto her face at the thought and her hand crept down to her pocket where the reply was hidden.
The smile faded as she turned the corner to see a blonde girl sitting on one of the steps, sobbing silently. If it weren't for the visible tears streaming down the girl's face, Ivy would have thought she were laughing or having a fit. She looked closer at the girl and recognized her. Persephone Barret. While Ivy had avoided the fiasco of the Valentine's Tea Party, she had certainly heard about it from her classmates, and from their recounts of it, she sounded like a selfish, insensitive girl who wanted nothing more than to harm everyone in sight.
But now looking at her, with her hunched, shaking shoulders and distraught expression, Ivy felt nothing but pity and sympathy for her. She didn't seem like the monster the others had made her out to be. Ivy cautiously approached her and noticed that a piece of ripped parchment was at her feet.
"Hey... what's wrong?" the Gryffindor's tone was kind as she sat down next to the Slytherin. Ivy picked up the separate halves of the parchment up and handed them Persephone, careful not to read it. "Do you want to talk?" Ivy was not usually so nice, but something about this situation seemed awfully familiar to her. Crying over what appeared to be a letter was something Ivy often found herself doing, and no one ever comforted her when she needed it. Ivy wanted to be there for Persephone the way no one was for her.
october 2007 - august 2023.
i know the end
i know the end
27 Mar 2020, 21:01
Rebirth and Remorse
Reducio
Should Have Known Better - Sufjan Stevens
With typically hastened footsteps Thomas navigated through the crowd of his Astronomy classmates. Astronomy, a fascinating subject, the origins of our existence and the search for what lies beyond our universe often contemplated here. One day, the wizards may play an essential role in helping their muggle counterparts to accelerate discovery progress, if they do not already. There’s a spell for everything, right? Activate the breathe in space spell, apparate to Andromeda, take some notes---etc etc.
If wizards and muggles did ever collaborate on pushing the boundaries of exploration, one wizard that would be of no service—Thomas Lestrange. Why? Thomas did not pay attention in this class, instead periodically adding to owls for his mother. He opted to pull this stunt only in Astronomy, as the Owlery was on the way to his following class.
There were several mysteries in the case of Thomas Lestrange. Naturally with any mystery came many unanswered questions. Recently the owls he wrote home had the consistency of a lawyer questioning a murder suspect. To no fault of Madam Lestrange, the source of these questions was merely her concern. Why did you not write this summer? Why did you never return to New Romney? Why did I not hear from a school official? Why, why why. It began to multiply the boy’s frustration. Not the persistent demands for answers, but more so the fact he simply did not know.
Thomas took the passage to the owlery, his robes fluttering in the wind from the increase in elevation. The owlery offered a contemplative environment, student appearances were few and far in between. Alone time was hard to come by in this overpopulated castle. A place of comfort, to sit and ponder, release your guard, breathe—it was something to be cherished. The cold bursts of wind offered refreshment for the Slytherin, temporarily pausing to close his eyes, embracing the peace it provided.
This peace would be interrupted upon arrival at the second landing. At the bottom steps a pair of girls sat together. All the signs were there. The tears, the letter, the friend with a sympathetic expression. Aftermath of a break-up. In Thomas’ view it was all very…pathetic. The trivial platonic feelings of first years would encounter no sympathy from the boy.
As he neared the girls, he recognized the Gryffindor to be Ivy Bellamy. To sum it up, their families took turns hosting pretentious pureblood gatherings to celebrate themselves. After news circulated Thomas’ late father married a muggle, they were turned away. It was not Ivy’s fault, but gloomy tension persisted between the two.
Thomas halted his footsteps, drifting towards the stone banister, hand grasping the smooth stone. First, he would address Ivy, then Cinderella Jr. “Ivy. Following Slytherins around again, I see.” He criticized the girl for her associations with the green, given the houses are historically rivals. Though the source of hunger was not fueled by petty house dominance. No, the boy’s truculent tendencies were not a source of house discrimination. Thomas would hassle bulls of all colors in hopes for a brief glimpse of their horns, proving that deep down, everyone was as damaged as he.
His piercing blue eyes flickered over to the blonde in clear emotional distress. Thomas wouldn’t see her that way, though. No, what Thomas saw was a target painted in blood on the girl’s forehead—pleading, no, begging for him to stare down the crosshairs and pull the trigger. “What, your boyfriend broke up with you over text?” Wizards don’t use phones, but the wordplay inspired a brief glimmer of amusement in his otherwise deadpan gaze. “Get over yourself.” A circular head roll as the words coldly departed the boy’s lips. “Abandonment toilets are that way.” Without moving his head, the boy motioned to the steps from whence he came.
[Scenarios dependent on reaction below]
Remaining to the side of the staircase, the boy would attempt to walk past the pair of girls and up the steps that led to the owl room. IF they were to block his passage, Thomas would retrace his steps, standing several feet away from the girls, still facing them. IF the boy passed the girls without resistance, he would mutter the words “Slytherins’ these days, so soft.” And continue up the staircase. If either girl offers any retort, he will stop and turn to engage them further. If given no response, the boy will continue into the Owlery to deliver his owls.
We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be
Stamina: 8 | Evasion: 7 | Strength: 7 | Wisdom: 8 | ArcPower: 3 | Accuracy: 7
Ability - Evasive Maneuvers 2x
29 Mar 2020, 02:56
Rebirth and Remorse
Interacting With: @Ivy Bellamy, @Thomas Lestrange
A fact that rang true no matter the scenario or reputation of the person, a fact widely disputed but often reinforced by Persephone, was that the universe was a callous force, perhaps even one only existing in the depths of a faithful person’s mind. To presume that there was a higher force working with you, wishing you well and granting wishes in your time of desperate need, was nothing more than a display of irresponsible narcissism. The universe was not a power that catered to your needs or permitted favors upon the completion of seraphic deeds. Forces above were only a dream of the majority, only proven through psychological fits that allowed them to see goodness where only coincidence lies.
When this mindset became Persy’s default, protests arose, crying that it was selfish and close-minded in ways they could not coherently explain, but knew like the curve of their lover’s lips. Rather than convince her to reopen old scars and embrace a black light, it only furthered the Slytherin’s disgrace in humanity. If the universe or some higher power watched over her, protected her, then how could pure existence be so dismal and agonizing? That raw character was hidden, obscured by a facade composed of upbeat narcissism and opinionated habits. Underneath that, a part of her soul that would forever be protected by the fortress surrounding it, she was consumed. Her life was portrayed in greyscale, everything in its own shade between the opaque black and white. Nothing was more important than the concealing of this, as it depicted weakness and incapability, far from who the blonde was. Or, wanted to be.
The issue with concealing such a perilous secret was that rarely did they remain hidden.
Seeing in itself was a difficult task; hot tears had burnt into her corneas, which were unaccustomed to such a scorching sensation, and her vision had immediately blurred as a result. By the time her visitor had rounded the final corner, the time to dispose of such incapacitating emotion had simmered out, leaving the Slytherin defenseless and at the will of a total stranger. But that was much more familiar, that fight-or-flight with the accompanying confusion, senses all dulled. To her increasing distress, however, being accustomed to such trauma didn’t cease the tremble that ensnared without mercy.
To anyone else, the visitor’s seemingly positive intentions may have come as a relief, a burden lifted, but they only tightened the knot that lay so permanently in her chest. Given, Persephone could only register a few words, a ringing in her ears never faltering to allow relief, a privilege beyond the snake. It was bizarre, excruciating, and petrifying all at once, all natural senses numbed to the workings of the world around her. The slightly torn parchment that had been tossed away found the blonde’s grasp once again, fresh pain sizzling like the sting of a bee. The letters, each creating a word, which created a sentence, all combining to morph into the world’s sharpest dagger, fell to the uncaring floor once again. Although the fire had become numb, tears continued to drown away the words that troubled her, obscuring the message.
A quiet hiccup escaped through the barrier meant to suppress such a humanly noise, emerald eyes falling back to her feet which she still couldn’t make out clearly. It was as if her life was a pirated movie being played back to her, sounds delayed and quality almost sickening.
“No.” A breaking in the girl’s voice was abundantly present. It was the only phrase, response, that could be formed from such a broken state, a reply appropriate for everything ever asked of Persy. No, I’m not okay. No, I don’t want to ‘talk about it.’ No, I will not go home with you.
As if the current situation couldn’t worsen, someone else reached the scene of the crime, their presence unknown until they announced themselves to the girl who sat beside Persy. The voice was significantly deeper than that of whoever wished to comfort and undeniably more taunting, addressing one then the other in a tone unmistakable to its origin. Superiority. Perhaps that vitriolic bite sounded so familiar because it was the one the crybaby carried with her, clinged to in order to avoid falling away from the safety of the surface. It wouldn’t be verbalized, but beyond the suffering and discomfort that consumed Persephone whole, the girl wondered if his method was something similar.
“No,” she repeated. Persephone’s voice was breaking away, splintering under the pressure that was endless. Barely overcoming the consistent siren in her ears, the words ‘boyfriend’ and ‘text’ had screamed incessantly. It wasn’t a pleasure to meet a substandard reenactment of her everyday self when all that was desired was a moment’s seclusion, time to mop up what was left of the girl’s melting soul and poorly shape it back into a functioning person. Perhaps she’d been wrong about karma being a myth, all of life had seemed to tumble upon itself since the Valentine’s Tea Party.
Would that stop her? Of course not. But even having such a dominant personality didn’t rid one of human nature (crying), or at least not yet. Time was not only the enemy, but a dangerous ally.
Tears continued to form and fall, the palm that worked as a silencer now rubbing her eyes as if to clear away not only the water, but the emotion that came with it. Like it was expendable, extinguishable. Persephone felt the boy push past, knocking the two slightly to the right. For the first time since the glass struck her, her vision cleared, adapting to the obstacle of intense dismay. Those who did not evolve became extinct, even in imperfect conditions.
“Abandonment toilets? How c-clever.” The blonde looked over her shoulder, words tangling in her throat. “You’re r-right really, they are becoming s-s-soft. They’re all t-talk. Don’t have the bite to b-back it up.”
Don't talk like one of them, you're not. Even if you'd like to be. - Heath Ledger
Sta: 9 | Eva: 5 | Str: 7 | Wis: 7 | Arc: 5 | Acc: 7
29 Mar 2020, 06:03
Rebirth and Remorse
Interacting with @Persephone Barret and @Thomas LestrangePersephone's only reply was the word 'no', her voice breaking as she pushed the parchment out of Ivy's hands. Ivy made a soft noise of surprise as she watched the letter fall to the ground again. She wasn't sure what to say now. The Gryffindor had never been particularly gifted in being a comfort to others, and she wished that someone else was here for a moment - someone like Willow, who always knew what to say. "Well," she said hesitantly, choosing her words carefully. "If you don't want to talk, I can-"
But Ivy never got to finish her sentence. A cold, familiar voice alerted her to another arrival.
“Ivy. Following Slytherins around again, I see.”
Ivy's grey eyes narrowed at the sight of Thomas Lestrange, the boy her parents told her to avoid her at all costs. Well, that worked out well, didn't it? Memories of the traumatizing night she'd spent with him and his little Slytherin friends flashed through her mind and her mouth curled into a sneer - although whether it was aimed at him or at her family, she wasn't sure. "Thomas, I don't follow you. Don't flatter yourself," she told him flatly, but his attention had turned elsewhere.
He looked at Persephone now. “What, your boyfriend broke up with you over text?” he asked, his tone harsh.
Ivy's lips parted in shock at his cruelty. Couldn't he see that Persephone was upset? She had once snapped at someone who was distressed, and their relationship, although no longer hostile, was still awkward and distant. Although, she doubted Thomas was looking for friendship of any kind, the way he acted. "Thomas," she hissed, her tone warning. She looked over at Persephone, who had once again, stated nothing but the word 'no', rubbing at her eyes.
To Ivy's horror, Thomas continued. "Get over yourself. Abandonment toilets are that way.”
That was it. Ivy stood up and glared at him, her grey eyes stony. "Thomas! Leave!" she commanded. Her hands had clenched into fists and her cheeks were flushed. The Gryffindor wanted very much to hit him, but he looked a lot stronger than she did, and Ivy was not in the mood for getting into a fight she could not win.
To her surprise, he obliged, stepping around the two girls and moving up the stairs. Ivy let out a sigh of relief for a second - but she should have known better. "Slytherins' these days, so soft."
Ivy turned around, ready to yell at him again, but Persephone spoke this time, her voice shaking as she looked over her shoulder at Thomas. “Abandonment toilets? How c-clever. You’re r-right really, they are becoming s-s-soft. They’re all t-talk. Don’t have the bite to b-back it up.”
Truth be told, Ivy didn't agree. Thomas had a lot of tricks up his sleeve, but he wasn't the kind to display them for everyone to see, choosing to show them only when he felt like it. She thought of the night down at the Lake again and shuddered.
"Why do you have to be so mean, Thomas?" she snarled. "Would it kill you to be nice for just a minute?" She approached him, her grey eyes flashing dangerously. Ivy wasn't talking about just Persephone anymore. "I don't understand. What's wrong with you? I thought after spending so much time away from my family's stupid pureblood nonsense would have changed you for the better. But you're the same cruel boy you were three years ago." Ivy hoped her words would cut right through him and rip him apart. He deserved it.
She turned back to look at Persephone. "I'm sorry for whatever you found out in that letter," Ivy told her, nodding toward the parchment lying on the floor. "Life can be..." she searched for the right word. "...unfair. Especially with family." Ivy didn't know what Persephone was going through, but she assumed it was something to do with her family. "If you need someone to talk to..." The Gryffindor offered her a small smile. Perhaps Persephone would decline, but at least Ivy had tried. She knew how awful going through something alone was.
october 2007 - august 2023.
i know the end
i know the end
30 Mar 2020, 04:37
Rebirth and Remorse
Dear mother and father,
I wish this owl finds you both in good health, I have written this to you both to discuss a predicament regading my sorting...
Killian wanted to tear up the piece of parchment the moment he finished writing it. Sigh. This was a disaster waiting to happen. He's been distracting himself from writing the letter ever since the sorting cermony. And that was an awfully long time ago. If he were given the choice, he'd never dare to tell him the product of his lack of intent to ask the sorting hat to sort him into Slytherin. "But alas, if I don't tell them myself, word would get to them eventually." And so Killian began his journey to the owlry from his dormitory, his pace was quick as he began maneuvering amongst the crowd of students. It was always busy in the corridors at hogwarts, everyone always has somewhere to go and something to do. He supposed that's why he enjoyed staying in the more secluded areas of the school, he personally never enjoyed it when his uniform would get wrinkled from the awfully energetic students he'd pass by after his classes.
Maybe his parents wouldn't be too upset with the outcome of his sorting, change was a good thing, right? Right for most families but not for the Rothchilds, as a strict pureblood family, tradition was everything. And breaking the tradition of being sorted into Slytherin would be the last thing you'd want to do. If he were sorted into perhaps Ravenclaw, or Gryffindor, the possible reaction of his parents may be different. But Hufflepuff, it was described to be the house for the useless by his parents. Killian could already hear the venomous words of his parents through a howler already.
"Get over yourself. Abandonment toilets are that way.” Killian eyebrows furrowed. It seems he was just about to arrive to the owlery, and though he did think of the malice he'd recieve from his parents, the voice was not theirs. Nor anyone he had ever met rather. The voice was cruel, cold, and taunting, it made Killian tense up, knowing the owner of said voice was up there.
Another voice was heard, this one more angry and stern. "Thomas! Leave!" Was there a quarrel going on up there? Killian glanced at the neatly sealed letter in his hands, contemplating to go up there. He knew the best thing to do was to walk away, it was none of his business to add himself into what already seems like an intense situation. After a moment of consideration, he placed his letter into his robe pocket and continued to walk up in a calm stride. As he continued, more words were exchanged by the two voices, and further on, there was a third, who sounded upset and... sounded as if she were crying? This made Killian walk up a lot faster until finally he met with the sources of these voices.
His pale blue eyes locked onto the scene before him. Two Slytherins and a Gryffindor, to his, one of the Slytherins was crying and the Gryffindor girl was... defending her? Against the other Slytherin? Though stereotypes between the two houses were still popular and acknowledged, Killian shouldn't be so surprised that there are students who would go against those stereotypes. The Gryffindor snarled towards the Slytherin boy, talking about, what Killian could assume to be a refrence between a pureblood family feud of a sort. Killian could never quite understand the need of bad blood between pureblood families, though being a pureblood himself, the Rothchilds were known to be a rather indifferent bunch, making alliances with other families for the sake of business. At the end of the day, ill relations never helps in gaining prosperity. The situation seemed heated between the group, and though Killian thought it wasn't the best idea to insert himself into the situation, it felt like the right one.
"Excuse me, is everything alright in here?" His tone was calm but he carried himself in a way of concern towards the upset blonde girl and suspicion towards the Slytherin boy. "We musn't treat others with disrespect," He looked directly towards the male student, his expression cold and stern. "for the world might give you the same treatment in return." The Rothchilds were known to value respect, it was the many quotes his family morphed into a mantra to be remembered. The boy should know better than to test fate with his seemingly ill intent towards the Slytherin girl.
I wish this owl finds you both in good health, I have written this to you both to discuss a predicament regading my sorting...
Killian wanted to tear up the piece of parchment the moment he finished writing it. Sigh. This was a disaster waiting to happen. He's been distracting himself from writing the letter ever since the sorting cermony. And that was an awfully long time ago. If he were given the choice, he'd never dare to tell him the product of his lack of intent to ask the sorting hat to sort him into Slytherin. "But alas, if I don't tell them myself, word would get to them eventually." And so Killian began his journey to the owlry from his dormitory, his pace was quick as he began maneuvering amongst the crowd of students. It was always busy in the corridors at hogwarts, everyone always has somewhere to go and something to do. He supposed that's why he enjoyed staying in the more secluded areas of the school, he personally never enjoyed it when his uniform would get wrinkled from the awfully energetic students he'd pass by after his classes.
Maybe his parents wouldn't be too upset with the outcome of his sorting, change was a good thing, right? Right for most families but not for the Rothchilds, as a strict pureblood family, tradition was everything. And breaking the tradition of being sorted into Slytherin would be the last thing you'd want to do. If he were sorted into perhaps Ravenclaw, or Gryffindor, the possible reaction of his parents may be different. But Hufflepuff, it was described to be the house for the useless by his parents. Killian could already hear the venomous words of his parents through a howler already.
"Get over yourself. Abandonment toilets are that way.” Killian eyebrows furrowed. It seems he was just about to arrive to the owlery, and though he did think of the malice he'd recieve from his parents, the voice was not theirs. Nor anyone he had ever met rather. The voice was cruel, cold, and taunting, it made Killian tense up, knowing the owner of said voice was up there.
Another voice was heard, this one more angry and stern. "Thomas! Leave!" Was there a quarrel going on up there? Killian glanced at the neatly sealed letter in his hands, contemplating to go up there. He knew the best thing to do was to walk away, it was none of his business to add himself into what already seems like an intense situation. After a moment of consideration, he placed his letter into his robe pocket and continued to walk up in a calm stride. As he continued, more words were exchanged by the two voices, and further on, there was a third, who sounded upset and... sounded as if she were crying? This made Killian walk up a lot faster until finally he met with the sources of these voices.
His pale blue eyes locked onto the scene before him. Two Slytherins and a Gryffindor, to his, one of the Slytherins was crying and the Gryffindor girl was... defending her? Against the other Slytherin? Though stereotypes between the two houses were still popular and acknowledged, Killian shouldn't be so surprised that there are students who would go against those stereotypes. The Gryffindor snarled towards the Slytherin boy, talking about, what Killian could assume to be a refrence between a pureblood family feud of a sort. Killian could never quite understand the need of bad blood between pureblood families, though being a pureblood himself, the Rothchilds were known to be a rather indifferent bunch, making alliances with other families for the sake of business. At the end of the day, ill relations never helps in gaining prosperity. The situation seemed heated between the group, and though Killian thought it wasn't the best idea to insert himself into the situation, it felt like the right one.
"Excuse me, is everything alright in here?" His tone was calm but he carried himself in a way of concern towards the upset blonde girl and suspicion towards the Slytherin boy. "We musn't treat others with disrespect," He looked directly towards the male student, his expression cold and stern. "for the world might give you the same treatment in return." The Rothchilds were known to value respect, it was the many quotes his family morphed into a mantra to be remembered. The boy should know better than to test fate with his seemingly ill intent towards the Slytherin girl.
30 Mar 2020, 21:37
Rebirth and Remorse
Thomas’ choice to twist the dagger was a result of this combination: She unraveled in her self-pity, which when focused, could be transformed into her strength. Secondly, he took comfort as a witness to someone broken like he, and what reaction a little push would elicit.
There was no fire from the belittlement of the girl’s respective problems. On the contrary, she appeared to agree with Thomas. Albeit shaken up, words tumbling from her lips, demanding his undivided concentration to understand. But he wouldn’t understand. This response simply did not add up. To kick someone when down elicits a straightforward reaction. Some may react differently than others, though the consistency is singular. Some may curse, censure, condemn, whatever adjective you want to use, they would take exception. Others may bypass a retort for a physical response. A push, punch, kick, or the dreaded backhand.
The blonde provided nothing of the sort, challenging Thomas’ understanding of the human condition. These fighting words did not produce a fight, but agreement from the girl. Perhaps he was well off the mark, the breakup was not a source of her anguish, or if she intended sarcasm, it was hidden beneath the quivering tone. Thomas remained unmoved on the staircase, curiously turning back to face her. “Then change that, write them back. Show them your bite.”
"Thomas! Leave!" Then Ivy shouted out, the desired reaction has arrived, but from the wrong party. Beggars can’t be choosers.
“I was?” He said plainly with raised brows.
Thomas turned away, managing a few steps up the staircase before Ivy swiftly trailed behind. Her approach prompting the boy to turn back in a defensive stance, half expecting the girl to deck him. To his disappointment she did not, standing a step below him, questioning his actions and then… typical, she would make it all about her. “You didn’t know me then.” He declared with a piercing glare. “Don’t presume to know me now.”
The Slytherin sought the source of her pain, and to understand if the self-pity was justified. In time, this pity will turn into blame, blame into anger, and anger into pursuit of revenge. Or, the route of forgiveness, acceptance for what cannot be changed, no matter how willing you may be. The latter foreign to Thomas, his subconscious clung to his pain, regardless if he chose to accept or forgive.
Ivy turned to the blonde, offering a friend, a shoulder to cry on, to bask in their respective sorrows. To which Thomas took exception, his words spouting out like venom. “And that’s the nice thing to do innit? Let’s all feel sorry for each other.” His voice took on a sarcastic quality, belittling Ivy’s intention, as kind as it was, Thomas viewed it to be misplaced, and surely not the blonde's solution. “Your pain is your strength.” Speaking directly to the fellow snake, Thomas offered a suggestion of his own. “You want to feel better? Write them back.” Thomas reiterated his earlier point. As honest as he’s been. The boy would do anything in his power to talk to his father, unleash the accumulated rage, and demand his truth.
Enter another unseasoned mind, a boy that respected the alleged karmic laws of the universe. Did we expect anything less of a Hufflepuff? It contradicted the beliefs seated deeply within Thomas, driven by the ghost of his father. Life was not fair, if there is a god he does not discriminate based on a personal choice of right and wrong. Terrible things happen to the pure, the innocent, the good. The blonde for instance, likely undeserving of the pain she felt—it was no fault of her own.
"We musn't treat others with disrespect, for the world might give you the same treatment in return."
The badger boy intervened with a philosophical statement. It drew the ire of Thomas Lestrange. “Eh, the world is not fair.” He shrugged, motioning to the boy with an open palm. “For instance, some of us are Hufflepuffs.”
There was no fire from the belittlement of the girl’s respective problems. On the contrary, she appeared to agree with Thomas. Albeit shaken up, words tumbling from her lips, demanding his undivided concentration to understand. But he wouldn’t understand. This response simply did not add up. To kick someone when down elicits a straightforward reaction. Some may react differently than others, though the consistency is singular. Some may curse, censure, condemn, whatever adjective you want to use, they would take exception. Others may bypass a retort for a physical response. A push, punch, kick, or the dreaded backhand.
The blonde provided nothing of the sort, challenging Thomas’ understanding of the human condition. These fighting words did not produce a fight, but agreement from the girl. Perhaps he was well off the mark, the breakup was not a source of her anguish, or if she intended sarcasm, it was hidden beneath the quivering tone. Thomas remained unmoved on the staircase, curiously turning back to face her. “Then change that, write them back. Show them your bite.”
"Thomas! Leave!" Then Ivy shouted out, the desired reaction has arrived, but from the wrong party. Beggars can’t be choosers.
“I was?” He said plainly with raised brows.
Thomas turned away, managing a few steps up the staircase before Ivy swiftly trailed behind. Her approach prompting the boy to turn back in a defensive stance, half expecting the girl to deck him. To his disappointment she did not, standing a step below him, questioning his actions and then… typical, she would make it all about her. “You didn’t know me then.” He declared with a piercing glare. “Don’t presume to know me now.”
The Slytherin sought the source of her pain, and to understand if the self-pity was justified. In time, this pity will turn into blame, blame into anger, and anger into pursuit of revenge. Or, the route of forgiveness, acceptance for what cannot be changed, no matter how willing you may be. The latter foreign to Thomas, his subconscious clung to his pain, regardless if he chose to accept or forgive.
Ivy turned to the blonde, offering a friend, a shoulder to cry on, to bask in their respective sorrows. To which Thomas took exception, his words spouting out like venom. “And that’s the nice thing to do innit? Let’s all feel sorry for each other.” His voice took on a sarcastic quality, belittling Ivy’s intention, as kind as it was, Thomas viewed it to be misplaced, and surely not the blonde's solution. “Your pain is your strength.” Speaking directly to the fellow snake, Thomas offered a suggestion of his own. “You want to feel better? Write them back.” Thomas reiterated his earlier point. As honest as he’s been. The boy would do anything in his power to talk to his father, unleash the accumulated rage, and demand his truth.
Enter another unseasoned mind, a boy that respected the alleged karmic laws of the universe. Did we expect anything less of a Hufflepuff? It contradicted the beliefs seated deeply within Thomas, driven by the ghost of his father. Life was not fair, if there is a god he does not discriminate based on a personal choice of right and wrong. Terrible things happen to the pure, the innocent, the good. The blonde for instance, likely undeserving of the pain she felt—it was no fault of her own.
"We musn't treat others with disrespect, for the world might give you the same treatment in return."
The badger boy intervened with a philosophical statement. It drew the ire of Thomas Lestrange. “Eh, the world is not fair.” He shrugged, motioning to the boy with an open palm. “For instance, some of us are Hufflepuffs.”
We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be
Stamina: 8 | Evasion: 7 | Strength: 7 | Wisdom: 8 | ArcPower: 3 | Accuracy: 7
Ability - Evasive Maneuvers 2x
3 Apr 2020, 02:52
Rebirth and Remorse
Interacting With: @Ivy Bellamy, @Thomas Lestrange, @Killian Mordred Rothchild
Bantering between two people, often void of wit or sensible rationale, rarely did any good for either fighter, only increasing the heart rate and adrenaline levels while satisfaction remained unheard of in a veracious recount. One of the few elements even moderately appreciable about a distant but distinct childhood was that it was nearly empty of pointless arguments, but replaced with the feasibly worse alternative. The nothingness which had never ceased, leaving the child hopeless and without stability, prevailed even to this day. Hearing useless bickering, no matter how genuinely foreign, felt intimately close, like listening to the opposing voices in the labyrinth of fruitless feelings.
With blurry vision, Persephone observed with a rhythm as the two became tangled in their quarrel in an oddly unrequited manner, nothing that wouldn’t be familiar to the snake’s subconscious mind that swam in a sea of obscurity now. Both of them may have reluctantly spoken to the crying girl again judging by the movement of their lips and the target of those fierce glares, but this remained unheard over the consistent alarm that sounded in her head. A warning. Though her brain was ensnared in fight-or-flight, shoulders trembling and tears still rolling without hesitation, the Slytherin was simultaneously trapped in a stubborn paralysis of not only her physical form but her dulled senses.
Glimpses of the conversation occurring above her came in waves to shattering ears, certain words fighting through the maze to reach her comprehension. A history lay between the Slytherin’s company, not presented only in their meaningless words spoken as if attending a ceremonious funeral, but in the spirit they were delivered in. Menacingly enthusiastic, like scolding a kid sibling following the patently wrong path. Beyond the incessant noises, phrases such as “Thomas! Leave!” and “Your pain is your strength.” pierced her walls. Persy glanced at them once more, mouth slightly agape and allowing a single, quiet sob to escape its prison.
“M-Maybe I’ve misund-” The word felt like a tongue twister on its own, “-misunderstood my own p-problem. Does it c-correlate to your t-tragic relationship?” Out in the open, it hardly sounded as passive aggressive as it did in her mind. More like a genuine question, hopefully interpreted rhetorically as desired. The stutter and the tears did not seem to halt at any time, like newcomers would have to swim through them to reach the two whose voices were comprehensible.
Persy’s eyes fell on the boy referred to as Thomas, his face still filtered through the sting of unwanted teardrops. “Pain is j-just pain. Nothing m-more.” A deeper part of her wanted to lecture him about the art of suppression and containment, tell him that life only worsened from this point. An everlasting downward spiral. But, the truth the Slytherin never wished to acknowledge, was that it wasn’t him she wanted to tell that to.
Did you think this was my rock bottom?
“T-Talking to him w-w-would just enco-” Her tongue swallowed itself, "-encourage him." Like it did just now.
Another voice graced them, composed of a million others made of different tones and references, like each spoke over one another in a cloudy confusion. Their pitch fell somewhere in the middle, at least to distracted ears, and the blonde was unable to discern its carrier. The newcomer announced themselves with an inquiry, the same one asked by all who feigned such sympathy. How was one to be sympathetic, let alone filled with hollow empathy, if the situation at hand was massively misinterpreted?
Beyond the threat of friendship or connection that float along the surface, lay the offense that lingered in indulging in such selfish practices. Perhaps that perception could only belong to someone twisted in their mind, someone reshaped by the inconsiderate actions of another, someone like Persephone. Regardless of the psychological reasons that rest behind that mindset, the facts were present, crystal clear to even someone gifted with stability. Is there no more they can say than ‘is everything alright?’ Isn’t it fairly obvious that the opposite rang true like continual church bells?
“No.” That word again, small but so consequential and telling. The story of her life lied in that word, corrupt and deviant in a way that made its tale unreadable to an outsider. It was also, by beautiful coincidence, the one sentence that masked her stutter.
Don't talk like one of them, you're not. Even if you'd like to be. - Heath Ledger
Sta: 9 | Eva: 5 | Str: 7 | Wis: 7 | Arc: 5 | Acc: 7
5 Apr 2020, 13:05
Rebirth and Remorse
@Persephone Barret @Thomas Lestrange @Killian Mordred RothchildA sneer spread across Ivy's face at Thomas' declaration that she didn't know him - it was true, but then again, so was her statement. From what Ivy saw, Thomas was no better than the horrible boys who hexed Muggleborns on sight, the boys she was forced to smile at whenever they came through her home.
"You're right, I don't know you, but you don't have to be so cruel." Ivy would not pretend that she had not had her own moments of unreasonable cruelty, but she had never wanted to hurt someone for the sake of it. No, in her eyes, those who bore her rare fits of pure rage were deserving of it.
Tragic was the word Persephone used to describe Ivy and Thomas' relationship. The Gryffindor had to stop herself from scoffing out loud. There was no tragedy that had happened between them, as they had hardly known each other before anyway, and the Lestranges being shunned from the Bellamy family's circle of "friends" had hardly affected either of them, as it seemed.
Ivy's eyes flashed as she turned away from the infuriating boy, wishing that she had not stopped him as he ridiculed her offer of friendship to Persephone. She felt like slapping him, but forced herself to walk down the stairs without saying anything else as Persephone spoke.
"Pain is j-just pain. Nothing m-more."
No. Pain was so much more. Real pain ripped you apart and settled in your heart all day and all night, never leaving you alone even after it faded, even after you think you've forgotten. Real pain broke you into pieces and built you back up, only to knock you out ten times harder than before.
Ivy opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, someone else interjected themselves into the conversation - a Hufflepuff boy, asking if everything was alright. Ivy's face twisted and her lips thinned. Seriously? Wasn't it obvious? "What do you think?" she snapped. What did it look like to him -a picnic between three friends on the steps of the Owlery?
The Hufflepuff was apparently trying to deal with this situation with a philosophy of some sort. Ivy could only just stop herself from laughing. Some stupid philosophy would not help this situation. They needed a therapist and someone to knock some morals into Thomas' head. The idiot, what was he trying to do now? Mocking the boy for the placement of his house? It looked like Thomas was trying to get a rise out of everyone that particular day.
"What's wrong with you?" Ivy repeated her question, ignoring Persephone's earlier warning of not inciting him. "Did someone die or something? Or is this just how you act all the time?"
october 2007 - august 2023.
i know the end
i know the end
9 Apr 2020, 05:10
Rebirth and Remorse
It did not take long for Ivy to veer from her proposed role. Her hunger for endearment and offered sympathetic shoulder swiftly thwarted by the poignant blonde’s spurn. A combination of one-word responses completed the sidestep of a stereotypical pre-teen’s dramatic seeking for attention. On the contrary, these inaudible subtle weeps indicated a girl yearning to be left alone.
“M-Maybe I’ve misund-misunderstood my own p-problem. Does it c-correlate to your t-tragic relationship?”
“You work on pronunciation and let the big kids talk, kay?” Thomas quipped at the girl that remained unmoved at the bottom of steps. Even when choking on her own tears she contained a muted fire, to which he could relate. If not as his expense with reference to his nonexistent relationship with Ivy, he may have even found amusement from the comment.
Another temporary glance arrived towards the blonde, warranted by her painful declaration, do you really want to have this conversation Thomas. Pain may be subjective to the individual receiving, though we can all perceive physical pain in a similar fashion. If you put your hand in the fire we will all get burned, and if you place it in freezing water it will go numb. When stating pain is you strength, the boy was not referring to the aforementioned nociceptive or neuropathic types. The psychogenic—or psychological pain, when concentrated can be the most damaging of all. Or, as Thomas roughly stated, can be a source of your strength. “Sure, it is, if you sit there feeling sorry for yourself. Or, you let it fuel you...” And exact your revenge.
"What's wrong with you? Did someone die or something? Or is this just how you act all the time?"
The Gryffindor likely tributes the girl’s reluctance to unveil the source of grief as a product of Lestrange’s arrival. Possible, but deemed unlikely by the boy. If her comments were an insinuation meant to incite reflection on his father’s death it was a wasted opportunity. Too vague, lives are threatened on the daily in this school, death was not a distant concept to the boy. Someone surely died, someone died yesterday, someone died today, and someone will die tomorrow. So it goes. “Quit your whining. I never claimed to be a saint.”
“T-Talking to him w-w-would just enco--encourage him."
Him, of course it was over some silly boy. “The world will continue to turn, I assure you. You decide to keep moving with it, or be left behind.” Thomas looked past Ivy once more to address the blonde. The boy’s expression persisted to be apathetic, his tone intending to slash through the tears and awaken her clarity. A piece of him perplexed at his verbal solace and relative intrigue with the blonde. Perhaps it was the way she handled the others? Or the fact she was a member of Slytherin, and he intended to minimize the damage to a fellow snake’s reputation? Unlikely, Thomas did not give two fu*** about petty house rivalries. Perhaps his interest was warranted by a factor he would not yet consider, buried by his opposition to grasp its reality. Who really knows.
Thomas now intended to take his leave, well…his ascent up the tower, to do what he initially came here for. The girls would have time for their respective retorts, as he stood there long enough to hear them out. If no fighting words were offered…or physical blows, he would walk up the steps and into the owlery. [In other words, staying or leaving is dependent on the severity of reactions.]
“M-Maybe I’ve misund-misunderstood my own p-problem. Does it c-correlate to your t-tragic relationship?”
“You work on pronunciation and let the big kids talk, kay?” Thomas quipped at the girl that remained unmoved at the bottom of steps. Even when choking on her own tears she contained a muted fire, to which he could relate. If not as his expense with reference to his nonexistent relationship with Ivy, he may have even found amusement from the comment.
Another temporary glance arrived towards the blonde, warranted by her painful declaration, do you really want to have this conversation Thomas. Pain may be subjective to the individual receiving, though we can all perceive physical pain in a similar fashion. If you put your hand in the fire we will all get burned, and if you place it in freezing water it will go numb. When stating pain is you strength, the boy was not referring to the aforementioned nociceptive or neuropathic types. The psychogenic—or psychological pain, when concentrated can be the most damaging of all. Or, as Thomas roughly stated, can be a source of your strength. “Sure, it is, if you sit there feeling sorry for yourself. Or, you let it fuel you...” And exact your revenge.
"What's wrong with you? Did someone die or something? Or is this just how you act all the time?"
The Gryffindor likely tributes the girl’s reluctance to unveil the source of grief as a product of Lestrange’s arrival. Possible, but deemed unlikely by the boy. If her comments were an insinuation meant to incite reflection on his father’s death it was a wasted opportunity. Too vague, lives are threatened on the daily in this school, death was not a distant concept to the boy. Someone surely died, someone died yesterday, someone died today, and someone will die tomorrow. So it goes. “Quit your whining. I never claimed to be a saint.”
“T-Talking to him w-w-would just enco--encourage him."
Him, of course it was over some silly boy. “The world will continue to turn, I assure you. You decide to keep moving with it, or be left behind.” Thomas looked past Ivy once more to address the blonde. The boy’s expression persisted to be apathetic, his tone intending to slash through the tears and awaken her clarity. A piece of him perplexed at his verbal solace and relative intrigue with the blonde. Perhaps it was the way she handled the others? Or the fact she was a member of Slytherin, and he intended to minimize the damage to a fellow snake’s reputation? Unlikely, Thomas did not give two fu*** about petty house rivalries. Perhaps his interest was warranted by a factor he would not yet consider, buried by his opposition to grasp its reality. Who really knows.
Thomas now intended to take his leave, well…his ascent up the tower, to do what he initially came here for. The girls would have time for their respective retorts, as he stood there long enough to hear them out. If no fighting words were offered…or physical blows, he would walk up the steps and into the owlery. [In other words, staying or leaving is dependent on the severity of reactions.]
Action: Thomas goes into the Owlery, still available for interactions if followed.
We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be
Stamina: 8 | Evasion: 7 | Strength: 7 | Wisdom: 8 | ArcPower: 3 | Accuracy: 7
Ability - Evasive Maneuvers 2x