Pear-ing Through the Shelves
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—date. [ 15/12/25 ]——————word count. [ 567 ]— —interacting with @pericles dralt— As Roland penned his letter to the Ministry, passionately defending a certain Professor Iwasaki whom he barely knew, and firmly establishing all the necessary makings of a future agitator, he realised that whenever the quill lifted to hover just a fleeting breath above the paper, his gaze wandered hastily toward Pericles Dralt with a persistent autonomy. He remembered the first time the name, rare and melodic, struck his ear amidst the usual sports babble at the Gryffindor table. Pericles. Like in that probably-Shakespearean play? Surely a man bearing such a moniker, Roland had amused himself, must be draped in imperial purple, bleeding a blue deeper than any Dover sky. And combining this wickedly cool name with his current activism regarding the Iwasaki affair galvanised Roland to get even more curious about him. They -who?- say looking up to someone means you are hollow inside, an argument championed primarily by those dreary masses who are not blessed with the ability to appreciate the virtues contained in certain emotions and tendencies in a graceful manner that they are not endowed with. Roland, however, stood apart from this uninspired herd, for he was wired differently. If the eleven-year-old found himself drawn to the genius of Noël Coward, the glamour of Roxy Music, the cool gaze of Paul Newman, and, say, the Hogwarts-ian legend of Pericles Dralt, it was simply because he had an innate, if yet inarticulated, wisdom that living was nothing but gathering up of whatever shines naturally. By the time Roland finished his letter, the boy realised that Pericles had already packed his belongings, with the minutes slipping away before the library doors would take him. A quick flutter started low in his stomach, that skittish excitement of a cat crouching in the shadows, yearning for the warm hand but staying hidden in the dark. So easy he usually was, but not in the rare seconds he actually had an agenda. A new face, after all, was nothing but a breath of fresh air, but a face he had already painted over with his own thoughts... that was a different weight. It felt like a skirmish where one's illusions, positive or negative, might be disproved. Still, he drew the breath in, crossing the room toward Pericles with calculated steps, gripping his letter like a lifeline. There's a specific guilt installed in well-raised boys when forced to interrupt someone already half-turned to the door. Still, shaking off the hesitation, Roland offered an apologetic cough first, followed by a polite nod. Up he had to look as commanded by the sheer height difference between the two. Lifting his chin to meet his eyes, "Hi," Roland managed to say. "I, um, I just wanted to thank you. What you're doing for Professor Iwasaki is amazing." And he meant it. Absent this activism, Roland wouldn't have particularly expected to encounter legal scandals in this new magical utopia. He thrust the letter forward, clumsy in the paper-smelling air. "I hope it's not too intense. Some say I may act a little too dramatically," he added. "Without your warning, though, I'd have been throwing some dirt-words at those boring bureaucrats." "Oh, but, sorry, I'm holding you hostage," Roland blurted out, hitting the eject button to execute a hasty tactical retreat, if needed. "No one wants to listen to a first-year ramble," he said, a self-deprecating smile exploding on his face like a tragic firework. ═════════════════════  ═════════════════════( codes & banner by harlan ! )— | —— |
| sta • 6 | eva • 5 | str • 2 THEATRE KID wis • 9 | arc • 7 | acc • 6 | the muggle condition THROUGH⠀THE⠀YEARS every step a scene worth watching |
Pear-ing Through the Shelves
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Mentorship seems to suit him. The truth of the matter was, as Pericles watched the hour tic down, he felt the last dredges of his authority drain. He returned to the role of a tired seventeen-year-old, shrugging off the mantle of maturity. His darting eyes became half-lidded, his purposeful stride reduced to a languid stroll, and his features were shadowed by solemnity. The cough catches him in the middle of corking an inkwell. Pericles paused, turning his head first, body following in the wake of that unshrinking "Hi". Both bottle and stopper were still in his hands as he faced the first-year, a neutral smile sparking up as he thumbed them together and set them aside, a deft indication that Roland had his attention. The world-weary face was secured back behind an anticipatory expression. "I, um, I just wanted to thank you. What you're doing for Professor Iwasaki is amazing." The reply is prompt: the product of a pure-blood's ingrained politeness, a thankful redirection. "That's very kind of you to say, though I've only helped organize. My effort would mean nothing without participants." When the letter was thrust out, he took it carefully, holding the parchment up as emphasis to his own words.
The year gap between them becomes all the more apparent in the anxious, apologetic approach Roland takes, but Pericles' strange face remains set in patience. He recognizes the mien of someone who's been brushed off or overlooked too many times by older figures. When the boy not-so-subtly offered him an out from the conversation, the Ravenclaw stated plain as fact: "It doesn't matter what year you are when you have something worthwhile to say." Given the forbearing smile Pericles equipped, paired with the questioning gleam in his good eye, he didn't feel as though his time was wasted. The attempt was brave. If he had tried to launch the same normal, up-front conversation with the upperclassman he admired back in the day, he might have learned a thing or two. He wasn't about to snub someone who stood where his younger self had. Permission to read something significant as a person's letter to their representatives was a gesture of trust he would be heartless to betray. His stare fixed on the paper, then the silver eye rose, a teasing "If you're sure?" offered. It was rhetorical. His enchanted eye was already darting side to side in its socket, reading the page with mechanical quickness.
Pericles' gaze started at the Shakespearean quote, then traced through the perspective of a muggleborn boy from a family of thespians. It softened with a passing appreciation for the arts before sparking with recognition. It was the story of a weak king's disastrous leadership, the murder of a mentor, and the clash of powerful Houses. The parallels to a crumbling Pureblood empire aren't lost on him. Bleak as Roland's tone is, there rings a poignant truth to a child's "crushed hopes of fairness" from those they're meant to aspire after. The letter left him in a state of rumination. Rather than nitpick at the paper's contents- there is nothing to correct nor refine- he confided a memory. "My parents took me to see Henry VI when I was young. Too young to appreciate Shakespeare, if I'm being perfectly honest. But I remember it as my first time visiting a muggle theater. We dressed differently to blend in, and it was strange seeing my mother and father hide their wands away. I asked them why we couldn't wait for the production to come to our 'normal' theater. Da told me, the magical troupes change the story. They incorporate wizardry into the tale so as not to portray banal muggles." His smile adopted a bitter edge, mutely acknowledging the crude exclusion. "They rewrote Shakespeare, into an absurdist retelling, because they failed to see the value of muggle words. Or, maybe they were ashamed by how deeply they related to them."
The Ravenclaw spoke with a storyteller's prose, though he seemed to think a child of the arts would understand what he tried to convey through reverie. "Only we weren't the only House in that theater. We recognized other lines in the audience, who'd all dressed up in mugglewear, pretending not to recognize each other." Times had changed since the Second Wizarding War ended in 1998. They had changed even more since he was a boy, watching purebloods in funny hats avoid one-another's eyes so they could enjoy a muggle's artwork. Where once wixes wouldn't even listen to Shakespeare himself, he knew there were those willing to listen- or who could be forced to, if enough of them spoke up. Pear pulled an envelope from the stack he'd supplied, presenting it along with the letter. "I think you've written precisely what needed to be said. Don't allow yourself to be silenced by anyone who calls your earnestness 'too dramatic'." When 11-year-old wizards' opinions are taken seriously, and when a lycanthrope isn't treated unfairly just because of what they are, that's when things will start falling into place. He could only hope the official on the receiving end would be as moved by Roland's words as he had been.┗ ┛ | @Roland Domagoj Marin |
{ 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔞 𝔟𝔬𝔶: 𝔞 𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢, 𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔟𝔬𝔶. 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔰𝔞𝔶 𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔣𝔞𝔯 𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔩𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔢𝔞. }
(iNPC: Madhup Hexum)
Pear-ing Through the Shelves
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—date. [ 15/12/25 ]——————word count. [ 1277 ]— —interacting with @pericles dralt— How does it feel to be you, Pericles Dralt, Roland gently mused as the older boy turned his head to meet his gaze. At first, to be seen by Pericles, attracting the attention he had so deliberately sought, was like a cold prickle on the skin. For a brief moment, the commonplace knowledge of what to do with his own hands dissolved into the ether, leaving them hanging heavy at his sides. Such was the ironic business of making an introduction, where the urge to will yourself into another's awareness left one staggering like a wave against the breakwater. Yet, in the quiet, measured grace of the older lad's response, the young Gryffindor found a sudden oasis of calm. It was relieving, not the politeness itself, but the moderation. Had Roland been able to capture the world-weary gaze etched on Pericles' face fully, he might've recognised the very expression he himself wore after enduring his parents' exhaustingly avant-garde social circle. Deeply accustomed to an environment where even passing the salt required some wordplay and grand swinging arms, this effortless politeness, richly performed by Pericles, was a revelation, making the younger boy dream of a world where the small dark spiders were never sucked down into the howling belly of the vacuum cleaner. "It doesn't matter what year you are when you have something worthwhile to say." The words fell like a perfectly tailored and pretty quotable aphorism. To even nod at this Draltian wisdom, however, felt a tad arrogant, a dangerous flirtation with pride. The split right down the middle of him, the bright hungry diva counting the days until his debut in the spotlight began to war with the heavy blanket of old Balkan blood pulling him down to stand still. "Oh, yes, I'm sure," Roland managed to reply, with a smile richly deserved curving at the corners of his thin lips. In truth, having his prose echo within the mind of Pericles Dralt suddenly seemed quite as vital as some dusty Ministry official taking it seriously. For a text, even one born from the raw material of a young heart, cannot exist in the sheer void; it demands a witness. Who, after all, ever wrote a single line in a locked book without the gripping thought that someone someday would find it, even if the only one finding it was the stranger he'd be a dozen years down the road? As Pericles' eyes, one bearing an enchanting coolness, dropped down to the ink and began to slide back and forth across the paper, Roland studied the older boy's expression with equal intensity. Faces were intrinsically their own language, and to the boy's pathetically unseasoned spirit, most were far more incomprehensible than the thickest Dalmatian accent. Roland's widened doe-like eyes slightly resembled a technocrat inspecting a manometer, watching the silver eye track the lines. When Pericles raised his head from the letter, all the flickering colours of waiting without a certain expectation washed over Roland's shiny face. Should his letter prove intolerably childish, well, the boy reasoned privately, he was, in fact, a child, just as a wanderer cannot help but lose his way when nobody bothered to pave a path for them to take. But something more miraculous than Roland could've anticipated happened, and the voice of Pericles resonated with a casual reference to Shakespeare's Henry VI. The Marin boy was caught in the sudden unreality of it. Was the legendary broomracer seriously talking to him about the Bard? And was this occurring in the waking world, entirely unbothered by a sudden rupture in the space-time continuum? In that very instant, Roland once again remembered the reason behind his envy of the upperclassmen. Heavens, they read real books. Not those sterilised editions of world classics pruned for sensitive children, axed and bled-out, nor the hollow epics of caped saviours who'd throw a fit if they didn't save the world every five minutes. Roland himself was something of an erudite, though mostly obsessed over plays rather than acting like a complete library hermit; he loved anything that took him beyond the constraints of his mind to the moon and back. Furthermore, Pericles' words were a massive reality check. The boy had mistaken the pure-blood blindness to the great canonical works as a mere accident of birth, thinking their own houses were not soaked in the loud theatre of his own people. It appeared, however, that the Wizarding society had maintained a centuries-long embargo against Muggle playwrights. Caught between the warmth of Pericles' shared memory and the vast comprehension of this realm's artistic void, Roland felt a most undignified blush creeping up his cheeks, his eyes clouding with the mist of inner contemplation. "How strange," he murmured, his hand coming to rest upon the wood as though seeking an earthly anchor, "that they couldn't see how a perfectly delivered line is the same as a wand-spell." As if channelling a secret mantra, "I rather wish you foes than hollow friends," the boy murmured. Waking from the thick dream of it, he offered a small, gentle smile. "Way more magical than a standard Lumos, right?" Truth be told, though the old love of the spoken and written word sat heavy in him, the sharp crack and spark of the wand had taken Roland fast. At first, he'd viewed casting Aberto on a functional door as idle; now, however, he felt an itch in his fingers for the smallest things. Reclaiming his letter from Pericles, he enclosed and sealed it. "Thank you very much," the words murmured, "for your time and kindness." The laws of the natural world demanded a mere half-minute or so for the wax to harden, but Roland drew forth his cypress wand. Hovering it over the wax, "Glacius," he uttered. The sudden biting chill spilling from the tip instantly chilled the wax before Roland snapped his wand back, just before the parchment itself could turn into a solid block of ice. A quiet smile touched his lips, born of a deep satisfaction. It was actually a third-year charm the young lion had dug up while snooping through the advanced curriculum. Why his soul had attached to this particular charm remained a mystery, unexamined by the probing gaze of an analyst. Yet, casting it there, in front of the older boy, was maybe unplanned, while it was impossible to ignore the delightful vanity of the act itself. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention this to my Head of House. I am, allegedly, still struggling to levitate a feather." The sealed parchment, still radiating a magical frost, hung at Roland's side. "Seventh year must be quite tough," he blurted out as the older boy's schedule had only just dawned on his mind. "I'm not a Hogwarts expert, but you have those exams this year, right? The difficult ones. And on top of all that, you're trying to win the broomracing championship for Ravenclaw and get Iwasaki a fair trial." He paused, his gaze dropping down to the tips of his shoes before fluttering back up. "If you ever... just want to zone out, and if you miss theatre, I've got a ridiculous amount of monologues memorised. It'd be my pleasure to subject you to the finer points of Muggle drama." A strange way to hold out a hand, maybe. Roland offered a highly gleeful shrug regardless. "You have a wonderfully tragic face, by the way," he commented, riding a sudden wave of folksy confidence. "I know a few good monologues that would suit that expression perfectly. I mean, you could put it to good use on a stage." He smiled, hoping he hadn't overstepped some boundaries. ═════════════════════ ═════════════════════( codes & banner by harlan ! )— | —— |
| sta • 6 | eva • 5 | str • 2 THEATRE KID wis • 9 | arc • 7 | acc • 6 | the muggle condition THROUGH⠀THE⠀YEARS every step a scene worth watching |
Pear-ing Through the Shelves
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Both eyes snapped into synchrony when Glacius was cast. One could practically see the math being done on a first-year casting a third-year spell. Pear's eyebrow arched at the request to keep the performance between them. "Which year did you say you were?" he muttered, a smirk implying it was rhetoric. He didn't hide his desire to pry, yet Roland left him no time to, casually redirecting attention onto the complexities of seventh-year. Right. N.E.W.T.s, racing, and social activism all at once. Pear's lips slid into a mild frown; he hadn't seemed to have taken inventory of his responsibilities, as they all felt inconsequential in the face of looming graduation. He drew breath and donned a puzzled expression. There was a response on the tip of his tongue, but he was reluctant to vent his troubles with someone just starting out. How was he to explain that the worst part of all that chaos was that it was about to be over? Instead of unloading, he fixed his perplexity on Roland, waiting to see where he was headed with it. An invitation to the arts wasn't expected, but was welcomed, given the way that cloud passed from his face. The shape of his mouth smoothed out again. "I wouldn't be opposed. Maybe you'd consider explaining 'stage magic' to me." And then, to talk of his face being "tragic", an actual laugh- light and honest, unsure as to whether he was more amused or flattered. "I was never much one for the stage, though I never gave acting a try. I wouldn't shirk a chance at a new experience." It would also be an ideal place in which to get the guy's guard down enough to ask why he wouldn't let his natural affinity for magic shine through. Lured by the potential mystery, but brought back to earth by the task at hand, Pericles turned his attention to the table. Clean-up was a mirror of the flippant use of magic, passing a wandless palm over the table with a commanded "Pack." An organized cyclone of quills, papers, envelopes and stationary obediently marched into the confines of his satchel. Both the workshop and conversation were coming to a natural end, and while the letters had an ambiguous fate, the two of them were parting with a promise of eventual return. "Stay in touch, Mister Marin."┗ ┛ | @Roland Domagoj Marin |
{ 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔞 𝔟𝔬𝔶: 𝔞 𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢, 𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔟𝔬𝔶. 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔰𝔞𝔶 𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔣𝔞𝔯 𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔩𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔢𝔞. }
(iNPC: Madhup Hexum)