Delicacy Errand PV Closed

@Jack Burnett, @Ruka Tân

It was unexpected, though that word hardly did justice for the lurch of vexation that consumed her the moment the parchment unraveled, cursed with his fingerprints and handwriting. The owl wasn’t only an unforeseen invitation, but an abrupt and sickening attempt at what appeared to be a reconciliation between two that were doomed for the fate they dwelled in. Water could turn to ice, then be restored to its natural state before becoming a transpicuous mist, but relationships weren’t the kind to grow and develop, or to change their state in ways beyond skin-deep, destined to conclude in the manner they began.

This was all tied neatly to the idea that people don’t change, but are rather manipulated by a draconian environment to behave in ways never before predicted, defying the chains that bind them and creating boundaries all their own yet purely illusive. That was nature, a fact of life as unchangeable and immune to mankind's’ worthless vaccines as gravity. Those changes, the raging against the sky as our only limit and wishing to expand it like elastic, were only a surface emotion, a mask worn by each and every individual that claims to have changed their ways. Underneath the cures that tasted so sweetly, the adrenaline that pulsed through like a drug, the sunshine in their veins, the person would remain pinioned to a post, the one appointed to them at birth, never to overcome the fear that would inevitably become a black hole.

Change was simulated, only appearances can be morphed over time, presented actions that replicated those of the other party. Mindsets were a forever burden.

Just as Tân nor Persephone would be altering their ways for the virtue of the other, the mold of their relationship would remain the same forevermore. A reluctant apology, however, may be offered on this day, the first opportunity to degrade herself in such a way since the activity’s initial request. Exchanged services were an epidemic as old as the concept of time yet as youthful and glowing as the blonde herself, though in torturous moments, she could hardly recall a request so wretched. Seilun thrived further on the agony of others than Persy, a hyperbole that felt appurtenant now, to be execrated come the next sunrise.

To say such, withal, was assuming that Persy planned on following through with this invitation, a welcome card to hell written on parchment, the reminiscent feeling of it against her fingers inducing nausea that dyed her skin green the day it was received. Suffering and ceaseless regret could be forsaken if she were to simply not attend Jack’s proposed interaction, the lure of house points and money [not to mention a challenge of sorts] no longer enough to draw the startled animal into a fatal trap. It wouldn’t be difficult to toss this letter from a window, burn it in a fireplace, bury it in the dirt to be utilized another time. Persephone knew this well.

Not to mention, what the hell was his angle, professing to be so considerate and inviting like the good demon boy he should be? No, the Slytherin knew, the most atrocious part of this bottled storm was that these emotions were real for him. On the woeful day the two first met, Persephone received a sense of ease in realizing her intellect was not the only present in the grand castle, in her year, and to her later remorse, in the snake house. It took very little time for this to be turned upon itself, wearing the words and not speaking them, a plastic sword of vengeance, the ginger from hell exposing himself to be the human he was. Emotional, wits not driving his actions but instead unavailing feelings. This was exhibited the day his rage got the best of him through one, small, necessary concussion. Each day, Persy grew more grateful for it, that the information came to her attention sooner rather than later. So, circling back to the question, what the hell was his angle in inviting her to this, given their previous interactions? With him? With Tân?

Persephone, of course, was human too, but that would be denied as long as her blood circulated. The blonde preferred the term humanoid, able to perfectly mimic that which was shown to her. Mind breaking the spirit of her soul, time had come to admit that she was alone in her endeavors, and always would be.

So, to further compress and lengthy justification, yes, she agreed to attend. For the house points and the money, a promise repeatedly told herself, an idealistic replica of the thoughts belonging to your typical greedy Slytherin. Blending in.

On the day meant for this defying event, the blonde arrived at the Great Hall with overwhelming weight upon her, physical pain resulting from such heavy lungs, filled with enough concrete to sink her into the unforgiving ocean. Decorating cupcakes like the insignificant child she was intended to be would, without an ounce of dubiety, blemish her reputation further, falling victim to Jack Burnett and his merciless bait. Falling victim to an apology that didn’t want to be provided for a number of reasons. The tables had turned, Persephone being the sufferer of her own ambitions, the soul thrown promptly under the bus to walk on broken glass. Never would she get to be the convalescent, beginning in misery and ending in such, like the nature of all relationships.

The red hair immediately caught her eye, willing itself to sprout devilish horns at any given moment, the mere thought provoking an audible scoff of humor. Walking up to him slowly, almost as someone suppressing their excitement [oh, how opposite that was from the faithless truth], Persy would introduce her presence with a reference that would likely fly by him. “Sitting at the right table, Burnett? There may be a designated one for idiots, though I can’t be sure, just looking out for you.” She taunted carefully, disdain conspicuous in her tone. Persy studied him for a moment, looking for the answer to his ulterior motives here, reasoning to play petty games with the enemy, perhaps an activity in the nature of a trickster. There were more pressing matters, of this she was sure, but while being forced to be around the demon and his apparent sidekick, nothing better to do was prominent.

Although it would mentally dissolve her, decorating a cupcake was not entirely lethal.

@Jack Burnett, @Persephone Barret

There was no history between Professor Kibitzer and any of these students. Each one had their own scars and grudges to hate each other. Rosalind, however, was there simply because she did not have the heart to refuse. If the children wanted to show off their efforts to a grown-up, she would make an appearance as the authority figure to ooh and aah and their creations. Besides, it was not often that you had a student's blessing to judge them. She wouldn't dare waste the opportunity.

Rosalind walked into the Great Hall, the heavy thumps of her boots heralding her arrival before she made it to the table. This seemed to be the one - the Slytherin boy was seated, and he had his two little friends with him, too. The little girl had a look on her face like she was trying to smuggle sour milk in her mouth. The boys look more amused. It was a typical scene to see in school, when the girls had matured but the boys were still in that charming phase of life where all they could do was irritate you.

She stood beside the table for a few moments, taking in the sight of each of them and making her own judgements. The Gryffindor boy had an appalling collection of scars under his sleeves, but she didn't let her eyes linger for too long on them. The kids of Hogwarts seemed to find more trouble than they bargained for quite often. It was not only the Slytherins who were victims. The last thing she wanted to do was ruin what could've been an innocent cake decorating competition.

Unfortunately, she was dressed for a funeral. All black everything, as usual. It did not stain easily and allowed her better freedom of movement than the heavy robes that British wizards seemed keen to drape themselves in. It spoke to the more practical attitudes of the American professor. If she didn't seem foreign enough, her accent gave it away - full Boston, although some children had trouble recognizing it.

"Jack," she said, wagging her finger in the direction of young Mr. Burnett. She followed up with a similar gesture in the direction of Ruka and Persephone. "Ruka, Persephone. Is that right?"

It seemed she had arrived before she was necessary. There was no work done to judge just yet. She didn't relax for a moment, however. The children would find a way to create work for her yet. They had her full faith.