The Path Least Treacherous
Aamon did not enter the hut so much as he was introduced to the threshold by force. One moment he had been outside, enjoying a relatively stable, relatively upright, relatively not being manhandled existence until the fire nation attacked his evil half-brother decided he was better off in than out. The door slammed behind him and then disappeared.
Aamon turned slowly, like if he moved too fast the situation might escalate out of sheer enthusiasm or universal malevolence. His mismatched eyes swept the interior of the cabin: the walls, corners, shadows that absolutely did not need to be doing that, and then landed on her. The dirty zombie/ghost child.
It called itself "Emma." And 'Emma' was allegedly alive, talking even. Suspicious.
The second year blinked once as Emma began explaining her very human condition with surprising enthusiasm. "Yes, I gathered," Aamon said quickly, holding up a hand as if to pause the demonstration of limbs or alleged mortality. "The arms and legs were a strong indicator. The commentary helped confirm it, though, so thank you." He totally lied. He might have been born at night, but not last night. He knew that was exactly what a zombie would say and it was not below Giddy to feed him to his pet zombie.
"So you're alive, I'm alive... allegedly and neither of us knows how to leave," the Slytherin summarized, glancing briefly at the door as if considering whether it might develop manners and reveal itself. Much to Aamon's dismay, the door did not. "Excellent. Thriving situation," he muttered in complaint.
"Emma Fox," he repeated the girl's name, like he was filing her name away somewhere. "You do realize that in most scenarios like this, introducing yourself after declaring you're not dead ranks somewhere between 'optimistic' and 'foreshadowing,' yes?" She might as well have told him that she was going to retire and this was her last day on the force. The death flags were waving high and proud.
Then, with a small, tight smile he would introduce himself as "Aamon." There was no need for surnames, he was famous enough so if she did not recognize him or his family from the papers, he could only consider that a saving grace. "Unfortunately," he granted but did not clarify.
He shifted his weight slightly, still hyper-aware of the space behind him, where the door had been. "I got here," he added dryly, "because my brother is a..." think of a bad word. "A-a mudblood and decided I needed to expand my horizons. Or die in a contained environment. The jury's still out."
Aamon's eyes flicked to the walls again. Then back to her. "You've searched already?" The wizard asked, tone turning practical despite the tension threaded through it. "No keys, no exits, no helpful cryptic messages carved into the furniture?" In an afterthought he added, "and just to be thorough: nothing in here has tried to speak to you yet, correct? Like a creepy teapot, a pair of curious slippers?"
Aamon turned slowly, like if he moved too fast the situation might escalate out of sheer enthusiasm or universal malevolence. His mismatched eyes swept the interior of the cabin: the walls, corners, shadows that absolutely did not need to be doing that, and then landed on her. The dirty zombie/ghost child.
It called itself "Emma." And 'Emma' was allegedly alive, talking even. Suspicious.
The second year blinked once as Emma began explaining her very human condition with surprising enthusiasm. "Yes, I gathered," Aamon said quickly, holding up a hand as if to pause the demonstration of limbs or alleged mortality. "The arms and legs were a strong indicator. The commentary helped confirm it, though, so thank you." He totally lied. He might have been born at night, but not last night. He knew that was exactly what a zombie would say and it was not below Giddy to feed him to his pet zombie.
"So you're alive, I'm alive... allegedly and neither of us knows how to leave," the Slytherin summarized, glancing briefly at the door as if considering whether it might develop manners and reveal itself. Much to Aamon's dismay, the door did not. "Excellent. Thriving situation," he muttered in complaint.
"Emma Fox," he repeated the girl's name, like he was filing her name away somewhere. "You do realize that in most scenarios like this, introducing yourself after declaring you're not dead ranks somewhere between 'optimistic' and 'foreshadowing,' yes?" She might as well have told him that she was going to retire and this was her last day on the force. The death flags were waving high and proud.
Then, with a small, tight smile he would introduce himself as "Aamon." There was no need for surnames, he was famous enough so if she did not recognize him or his family from the papers, he could only consider that a saving grace. "Unfortunately," he granted but did not clarify.
He shifted his weight slightly, still hyper-aware of the space behind him, where the door had been. "I got here," he added dryly, "because my brother is a..." think of a bad word. "A-a mudblood and decided I needed to expand my horizons. Or die in a contained environment. The jury's still out."
Aamon's eyes flicked to the walls again. Then back to her. "You've searched already?" The wizard asked, tone turning practical despite the tension threaded through it. "No keys, no exits, no helpful cryptic messages carved into the furniture?" In an afterthought he added, "and just to be thorough: nothing in here has tried to speak to you yet, correct? Like a creepy teapot, a pair of curious slippers?"
iNPC: Taylor Athanatos
The Path Least Treacherous
Gideon let his sister in law grab him. Her tiny manicured hands, that brutish force. That was the first mistake. Not his, no. He allowed for moments like this. He curated them. He let them bloom just long enough to feel like power before they withered into something else.
The velveteen fabric of his coat tightened in her grip as she drove him back into the door. The impact was solid, wood meeting spine with a dull, grounded sound, but Gideon did not resist it. He did not flinch.
If anything, he stilled completely. Winnifred's anger burned bright, immediate, and so very uniquely human. It pressed into him with heat, with breath, with trembling insistence. The crushed gorse between them released a faint, sharp scent, herbaceous and bitter.
And it would seem that this gorse would not decorate a salad, be added to a tea or dye her abundantly yellow attire. Yes, Winnie, useful.
Useful. His eyes lowered to her for just a moment, not with surprise, not even with irritation but with something even more unsettling. With interest. "You've improved," Gideon said softly. The comment was not praise, it was simply his assessment. His gaze flicked briefly to her hand at his collar, then back to her face. To the anger. To the fear threading beneath it like something she hadn't quite managed to bury. That was the part he lingered on. It fed something in him, this glutinous force with a voracious, insatiable hunger.
"Careful," Gideon added almost sweetly despite the tension coiled between them. "You're starting to believe you can move me." His hand lifted, not to remove hers, but to rest lightly over her wrist. No force was necessary. His hand was just… there. A reminder that he could respond and the chose not to.
"Because you now get to make what we like to call a Sophie's Choice. Do you understand what that is?" She probably did not. Mathias did not marry her for her brains. "The boy has been infantilized, isolated and has become increasingly dependent on others," a thoughtful pause. "You should relate." The words were soft. Almost gentle, but they were not kind.
Behind him, the door remained still. Closed. Unyielding. Not reacting to the impact, not acknowledging her demand. Gideon leaned forward slightly, not to escape her hold, but to reduce the space she had taken. To bring himself just close enough that her anger had nowhere to go but into him.
His hand tightened slightly around her wrist now, not painfully. Not yet. "You walking in there doesn't save him," Gideon claimed. "It just means there are two of you being measured instead of one." A flick of his gaze toward the door. His grip would begin to twist, he was deceptively strong, strong enough to snap bones if he chose such.
The velveteen fabric of his coat tightened in her grip as she drove him back into the door. The impact was solid, wood meeting spine with a dull, grounded sound, but Gideon did not resist it. He did not flinch.
If anything, he stilled completely. Winnifred's anger burned bright, immediate, and so very uniquely human. It pressed into him with heat, with breath, with trembling insistence. The crushed gorse between them released a faint, sharp scent, herbaceous and bitter.
And it would seem that this gorse would not decorate a salad, be added to a tea or dye her abundantly yellow attire. Yes, Winnie, useful.
Useful. His eyes lowered to her for just a moment, not with surprise, not even with irritation but with something even more unsettling. With interest. "You've improved," Gideon said softly. The comment was not praise, it was simply his assessment. His gaze flicked briefly to her hand at his collar, then back to her face. To the anger. To the fear threading beneath it like something she hadn't quite managed to bury. That was the part he lingered on. It fed something in him, this glutinous force with a voracious, insatiable hunger.
"Careful," Gideon added almost sweetly despite the tension coiled between them. "You're starting to believe you can move me." His hand lifted, not to remove hers, but to rest lightly over her wrist. No force was necessary. His hand was just… there. A reminder that he could respond and the chose not to.
"Because you now get to make what we like to call a Sophie's Choice. Do you understand what that is?" She probably did not. Mathias did not marry her for her brains. "The boy has been infantilized, isolated and has become increasingly dependent on others," a thoughtful pause. "You should relate." The words were soft. Almost gentle, but they were not kind.
Behind him, the door remained still. Closed. Unyielding. Not reacting to the impact, not acknowledging her demand. Gideon leaned forward slightly, not to escape her hold, but to reduce the space she had taken. To bring himself just close enough that her anger had nowhere to go but into him.
His hand tightened slightly around her wrist now, not painfully. Not yet. "You walking in there doesn't save him," Gideon claimed. "It just means there are two of you being measured instead of one." A flick of his gaze toward the door. His grip would begin to twist, he was deceptively strong, strong enough to snap bones if he chose such.
The Path Least Treacherous
‿︵‿୨✿୧‿︵‿
Interacting: @Gideon Athanatos | @Aamon Athanatos
Mentioning: @Mathias Athanatos | @Emma Fox
'You've improved,' Gideon commented. Winnie's lip twitched, then curled. "Don't patronize me." She huffed, her annoyance evident, covering up her true fear. The truth was there, dangling between them; her breath too shallow, her heart rate too quick. He could have incapacitated her within seconds, but the mad dog didn't attack.
"I'm not your little 'project'." Her voice wavered, but she raised her chin to meet his gaze. Hadn't she already played that role? Had been bent until she broke, had the cracks covered up, had been reformed carefully and rebuilt. That had been Mathias, slow, consuming, overwhelming. Gideon didn't play by the same rules, he seemed to enjoying watching others suffer for the sport of it.
Her gaze flickered down to his hand resting against her wrist. The hairs on the back of her neck rose instinctively. Dangerous, this monster is dangerous, get away from him. Winnie's stomach turned, risking losing her lunch. She did not like being this close to him, did not like him touching her. Anything resembling a gentle touch from Gideon was a lie.
"It's not much of a choice when you push someone inside of a room," the Ravenclaw pointed out. Truthfully she did not know what a 'Sophie's Choice' was, but she was not well versed in 1980s films. She bit her lower lip, her eyes flickering back to the door. To enter was to knowingly walk into a trap, but to leave Aamon on his own could mean his demise.
"I could do it, you know." She whispered, although she was unsure if she was telling Gideon or assuring herself. "Break something again. Mend it. Again and again. No one would be the wiser." Her wrist begin to twist in his hold, the beginning attempts of an escape from his grip.
"Or maybe you break my wrist," she'd have nightmares about this encounter where he broke it regardless or whether or not he did it in that moment, "you've already broken every bone in my body once. I don't think you'll do it again." A lie, she was not sure he wouldn't. Still, she had a high pain tolerance, you don't play Quidditch for five years without developing one.
Her pulse was quicker now, the voice in her head telling her to move, to shove him and run. "Or we could skip the song and dance and get to the point." Releasing her grip on his collar, Winnie took a step back, her wrist still held by his hand. Again, she did not like him so close. She had once again reacted without thinking when she had shoved him against the door.
"Trial? Explain." Riddles or not, Gideon still had not lied to her. "Does this have something to do with them?" Them being the ladies, or whatever she had helped wake up that night in the forbidden forest.
│ │ | │ │ | STA: 15 • EVA: 18 • STR: 8 WIS: 11 • ARC: 7 • ACC: 17 | │ │ | • Healing Sage • Muggle Condition • Paragon of Health • • Poison Resistance • Animagus • Wandmaker • Lovely Creature • | │ │ | │ │ |
The Path Least Treacherous
Emma realize Aamon very intelligent, much smarter, than she think that. The boy speaking style and vocabulary were fantastic. Emma didn't understand every single words, but it's okay, bc the point is clear to her. She listened to the boy's opinion with interest, analyzing it a bit in her had. Her eyes was narrow, and full of concentration. -I think in this situation, you have to be quite optimistic to achieve something.-her face was proud, bc she thought, she smart too. She put her arms on her hips.
-Aamon what? Or just Aamon? Very interesting, and wierd. You don't have family name? And why unfortunately?-she asked so much question, like a little child, but she was curios every single thing.
-Ooh, so you have brother. Uumm, i have one older brother too! You know, i just only meet one person who is mudblood, so i don't know any other people. My parents are not like.... Nevermind!- she talks a lot, she always start a new topic, it can be a bit of an annoying creature.
-You are mudblood too? And why does he want you to die?- Emma is too young to understand these things. But she try her best.
She pointed to the messy floor.
-Yes, i already searched, but i never found anything! I read every letter, paper, they were just silly conversations between 2 girls, nothing meaningful. And i did not find any key...- she starting to give up, but hope dies last.
Suddenly she bursts out laughing at what Aamon said.
-Teapot? Slippers? Whaat? This did not happen. But your creativity is good!-
-Aamon what? Or just Aamon? Very interesting, and wierd. You don't have family name? And why unfortunately?-she asked so much question, like a little child, but she was curios every single thing.
-Ooh, so you have brother. Uumm, i have one older brother too! You know, i just only meet one person who is mudblood, so i don't know any other people. My parents are not like.... Nevermind!- she talks a lot, she always start a new topic, it can be a bit of an annoying creature.
-You are mudblood too? And why does he want you to die?- Emma is too young to understand these things. But she try her best.
She pointed to the messy floor.
-Yes, i already searched, but i never found anything! I read every letter, paper, they were just silly conversations between 2 girls, nothing meaningful. And i did not find any key...- she starting to give up, but hope dies last.
Suddenly she bursts out laughing at what Aamon said.
-Teapot? Slippers? Whaat? This did not happen. But your creativity is good!-
The Path Least Treacherous
Winnie's wrist turned in his hand, tension coiling through her like something caught between the concept of fight and flight, and Gideon felt all of it: the tremor, the restraint, the calculation she thought she was making. But what she did not understand is how routine and exposure ultimately become instinct. That she becomes a product of her environment. That unpredictable violence creates a unique stress - one that leaves her questioning if he was seeking the struggle or her compliance.
Maybe it was a bit of both.
Gideon watched his sister in law the way one watches a mechanism. Curious where it would fail. Wondering what those shiny little buttons do. "You could," he said softly. There was no debate or dismissal, worse, there was agreement.
Giddy's grip did not tighten when Winnie twisted, rather his grip adjusted. The deviation was effortless, like he had already accounted for the attempt before she made it. "You could break something," he agreed, tone even, almost thoughtful. It was not a novel concept, she had broken him before. "Again. Mend it. Again." Gideon tilted his head slightly as if a new perspective would carry his words differently. "And try to convince yourself that repetition makes it control."
His gaze flicked briefly to her wrist in his hand. Then back down to her face. "It doesn't," he notified her.
"Because pain has a purpose," as does the fear it elicits. Pain tells you something is wrong. Something failing. Something broken. Pain demands attention," but repetition ruins meaning. "Eventually the warning dulls. Fear erodes and all that remains is sensation."
Winnie would feel it just then. A sudden, sharp twist and snap of her wrist (unless evaded or resisted). A sharp flare, then the quiet throb, like an echo that refuses to leave.
"That is what you misunderstand. Pain is not what people fear." They fear what stays. "Loss, weakness. The quiet realization that something will never be what it was before." Something that cripples, maims, limits them in some ways, defines them in a way that is beyond their control or will. "Permanence is the terror," and not something Winnie could offer him.
He released her wrist if he still held it, knowing that she would focus on healing, on alleviating. "I don't share that concern," he proclaimed. "There is nothing in me that stays broken." And thus, Winnie's threat didn't provoke him. Not the violence. Not the implication. Not even the memory of it.
"You're still thinking in pieces," Gideon murmured. "Bones. Wrists. Damage you can measure. That's why you're afraid." There was no accusation, merely diagnosis.
Winnie would ask if it was because of -them- and for once, the ever chatty Gideon would only tilt his head and smile. A question he did not want to answer.
Maybe it was a bit of both.
Gideon watched his sister in law the way one watches a mechanism. Curious where it would fail. Wondering what those shiny little buttons do. "You could," he said softly. There was no debate or dismissal, worse, there was agreement.
Giddy's grip did not tighten when Winnie twisted, rather his grip adjusted. The deviation was effortless, like he had already accounted for the attempt before she made it. "You could break something," he agreed, tone even, almost thoughtful. It was not a novel concept, she had broken him before. "Again. Mend it. Again." Gideon tilted his head slightly as if a new perspective would carry his words differently. "And try to convince yourself that repetition makes it control."
His gaze flicked briefly to her wrist in his hand. Then back down to her face. "It doesn't," he notified her.
"Because pain has a purpose," as does the fear it elicits. Pain tells you something is wrong. Something failing. Something broken. Pain demands attention," but repetition ruins meaning. "Eventually the warning dulls. Fear erodes and all that remains is sensation."
Winnie would feel it just then. A sudden, sharp twist and snap of her wrist (unless evaded or resisted). A sharp flare, then the quiet throb, like an echo that refuses to leave.
"That is what you misunderstand. Pain is not what people fear." They fear what stays. "Loss, weakness. The quiet realization that something will never be what it was before." Something that cripples, maims, limits them in some ways, defines them in a way that is beyond their control or will. "Permanence is the terror," and not something Winnie could offer him.
He released her wrist if he still held it, knowing that she would focus on healing, on alleviating. "I don't share that concern," he proclaimed. "There is nothing in me that stays broken." And thus, Winnie's threat didn't provoke him. Not the violence. Not the implication. Not even the memory of it.
"You're still thinking in pieces," Gideon murmured. "Bones. Wrists. Damage you can measure. That's why you're afraid." There was no accusation, merely diagnosis.
Winnie would ask if it was because of -them- and for once, the ever chatty Gideon would only tilt his head and smile. A question he did not want to answer.
The Path Least Treacherous
Aamon blinked at her. He was taking that moment to recalibrate; like his brain had momentarily stepped out of the room and was now attempting to re-enter politely. "…Optimistic," he repeated faintly, as if testing the word for structural integrity. It was feeble at best he realized.
The snake looked around the hut. The walls, the lack of a door, the furniture that looked like the pottery barn had vomited all over the interior. He tried to take in the general vibe of being forcibly relocated by to an underwhelming trap. Perhaps Gideon had lost his edge.
"…Right. Yes. I'll keep that in mind while we're potentially being contained for unknown purposes." He would not put it past Giddy to sell him to Koldovstoretz in exchange for a back of gum and an IOU for an interesting looking marble.
His attention snapped back to her as the questions began. Rapid-fire. Unrelenting. Slightly unhinged. Aamon inhaled through his nose sharply. "No-no... I do have a family name," he said quickly, lifting a hand like he was trying to physically slow the conversation down. "I'm just… choosing not to announce it to a room that may or may not be listening," and be holding grudges.
Emma kept going. Of course she did. Brother. Mud blood. Parents. Questions that were being asked with the enthusiasm of someone who had never once been told not to. Aamon's posture straightened slightly, the awkwardness sharpening into something more controlled, though his discomfort was still very much present.
"I am not..." Aamon started to correct the mud blood statement but it was hard to fit a word in. "No. I'm not."
Why does he want you to die?
"And that's… not really a question you should be asking people you've just met in suspicious huts." He rubbed the bridge of his nose briefly, like he was holding back either a headache or a lecture. Then an after thought in consideration of civility. "Or possibly ever."
Emma's laughter caught him off guard. He stared at her.
"You laugh now," Aamon said flatly, "but if that teapot starts demanding ransom, I expect a formal apology."
He glanced down at the scattered papers she had mentioned, then crouched carefully, like his dignity might crack if he moved too quickly and picked a sheet of paper up. "Silly conversations are rarely just silly conversations," he murmured, more to himself now. "People hide important things in things they think no one will take seriously."
Aamon glanced back up at her, expression caught somewhere between reluctant cooperation and social confusion. "…Also," he added after a second, "how did you end up in here?"
The snake looked around the hut. The walls, the lack of a door, the furniture that looked like the pottery barn had vomited all over the interior. He tried to take in the general vibe of being forcibly relocated by to an underwhelming trap. Perhaps Gideon had lost his edge.
"…Right. Yes. I'll keep that in mind while we're potentially being contained for unknown purposes." He would not put it past Giddy to sell him to Koldovstoretz in exchange for a back of gum and an IOU for an interesting looking marble.
His attention snapped back to her as the questions began. Rapid-fire. Unrelenting. Slightly unhinged. Aamon inhaled through his nose sharply. "No-no... I do have a family name," he said quickly, lifting a hand like he was trying to physically slow the conversation down. "I'm just… choosing not to announce it to a room that may or may not be listening," and be holding grudges.
Emma kept going. Of course she did. Brother. Mud blood. Parents. Questions that were being asked with the enthusiasm of someone who had never once been told not to. Aamon's posture straightened slightly, the awkwardness sharpening into something more controlled, though his discomfort was still very much present.
"I am not..." Aamon started to correct the mud blood statement but it was hard to fit a word in. "No. I'm not."
Why does he want you to die?
"And that's… not really a question you should be asking people you've just met in suspicious huts." He rubbed the bridge of his nose briefly, like he was holding back either a headache or a lecture. Then an after thought in consideration of civility. "Or possibly ever."
Emma's laughter caught him off guard. He stared at her.
"You laugh now," Aamon said flatly, "but if that teapot starts demanding ransom, I expect a formal apology."
He glanced down at the scattered papers she had mentioned, then crouched carefully, like his dignity might crack if he moved too quickly and picked a sheet of paper up. "Silly conversations are rarely just silly conversations," he murmured, more to himself now. "People hide important things in things they think no one will take seriously."
Aamon glanced back up at her, expression caught somewhere between reluctant cooperation and social confusion. "…Also," he added after a second, "how did you end up in here?"
iNPC: Taylor Athanatos
The Path Least Treacherous
When she finally not asking question, she listen very carefully. Emma is smart, but childish, and like talking a lot. She is curios, she is interested in every little thing.
-Listening? I don't think the walls can listen what we are talking about.- she look in to Aamon eyes, and being to honest, with him.
-I think If you're stuck in a hut in these circumstances, it doesn't matter what other people say. But it's my personal opinion. But i understand what are you saying.-She nods understandingly.
-But please tell me, you are not ashamed yourself, bc your family name! It can be very hard for you, if you are. It's just a name, and not show your real personality. Or anything else.-Emma can feel your little tension, bc she asked so many questions.
-But... i don't understand. If your brother is a mudblood, then why are you not?-she asked the question boldly, she didn't think about anything else.
When Aamon tell her, she should be not asking these question, then Emma she was very ashamed of herself. Her face was a little bit red, and she looked down.
-I'm sorry.... I was just really interested.-
When Aamon brought it up again the teapot theme, then she immediately smiled a little.
-Okay, okay, i will!-she laughed again a little.
-Why are you so smart?-she muttered quietly.
-Maybe, I didn't analyze exactly what they were talking about, they wrote it quite illegibly. I had no pleasure to read every single letter.- she looked where Aamon were.
When Aamon asked the most important question, how Emma end up in there.
-Ooh...um...you know.-she hesitates
-I'm new here, and we had some time. So i was thinking, i'm going to walk somewhere. But this hut, was so cool, i needed to come in here. I opened the door, and i came inside. But then... i closed the door, and the door was disappered. And then i searched for anything, and then you came here too.-she felt good that she could tell someone, but she was afraid of what if she never got out of here again.
-Listening? I don't think the walls can listen what we are talking about.- she look in to Aamon eyes, and being to honest, with him.
-I think If you're stuck in a hut in these circumstances, it doesn't matter what other people say. But it's my personal opinion. But i understand what are you saying.-She nods understandingly.
-But please tell me, you are not ashamed yourself, bc your family name! It can be very hard for you, if you are. It's just a name, and not show your real personality. Or anything else.-Emma can feel your little tension, bc she asked so many questions.
-But... i don't understand. If your brother is a mudblood, then why are you not?-she asked the question boldly, she didn't think about anything else.
When Aamon tell her, she should be not asking these question, then Emma she was very ashamed of herself. Her face was a little bit red, and she looked down.
-I'm sorry.... I was just really interested.-
When Aamon brought it up again the teapot theme, then she immediately smiled a little.
-Okay, okay, i will!-she laughed again a little.
-Why are you so smart?-she muttered quietly.
-Maybe, I didn't analyze exactly what they were talking about, they wrote it quite illegibly. I had no pleasure to read every single letter.- she looked where Aamon were.
When Aamon asked the most important question, how Emma end up in there.
-Ooh...um...you know.-she hesitates
-I'm new here, and we had some time. So i was thinking, i'm going to walk somewhere. But this hut, was so cool, i needed to come in here. I opened the door, and i came inside. But then... i closed the door, and the door was disappered. And then i searched for anything, and then you came here too.-she felt good that she could tell someone, but she was afraid of what if she never got out of here again.
The Path Least Treacherous
‿︵‿୨✿୧‿︵‿
Interacting: @Gideon Athanatos | @Aamon Athanatos
Mentioning: @Mathias Athanatos | @Emma Fox
The snap was quick and clean, as if Gideon were breaking a pencil instead of her bone. Winnie gasped, the air felt like it was being knocked from her lungs. Pain blossomed up from the point of the break, white-hot flare and overwhelming. But as her teeth grit together, she was focusing not on the pain, but on keeping herself quiet. She refused to scream. Not for him.
Pain, he was rambling on about pain and she could barely focus, but not because of the pain. No, she was used to small breaks like this. She wasn't a fan of them, but they were easy enough to fix. What she couldn't stand was allowing Gideon to turn this into another lesson she hadn't asked for. She was tired of him always being ten steps ahead of her.
After a few moments the sharp pain in her wrist begin to dull to a persistent throb. Her breathing steadied as she fixed her eyes back onto his face, "You only can't break because you can't break something that's already broken. How many bones have you broken in your body, Gideon? There are certain ones I would say I definitely fear breaking. The femur bone was the worst," she managed to speak, her voice was a bit tighter than before, otherwise she might as well have been talking about the weather and not a traumatic event from over a year ago. "It isn't like the wrist, it wasn't really a sharp pain." She explained as she slid her Willow wood wand from her pocket, using her uninjured hand.
"I heard it before the pain caught up. It's this sickening crack, you probably remember hearing it, or maybe not." The tip of her wand touched her wrist, which was now bent at a rather unnatural angle, "I don't know how far the sound traveled. I just remember that once the shock wore off and I felt the pain... I would have rather broken my wrist a thousand times over."
Something in her chest tightened as she was mentally brought back to the forest. The whispers, the way it had threatened to start moving again. "I guess that answers my question." Her eyes flickered from her wrist to the door, her wand suddenly pointing towards it instead, because you know what could break? "Confringo!" (rolled: 18)
│ │ | │ │ | STA: 15 • EVA: 18 • STR: 8 WIS: 11 • ARC: 7 • ACC: 17 | │ │ | • Healing Sage • Muggle Condition • Paragon of Health • • Poison Resistance • Animagus • Wandmaker • Lovely Creature • | │ │ | │ │ |
The Path Least Treacherous
OC: I'm sorry for the delay, I have been incredibly busy this past week.
IC:
Aamon watched the strange, short girl. Not in the casual, half-distracted way Aamon usually watched people. No, this was more focused. Slightly wary. Like he was trying to figure out if she was genuinely this earnest or if this was some elaborate trap involving excessive honesty or chatter made to look like candor.
"…Right," the Slytherin said after a moment, slower than usual. "The walls not listening" he paraphrased "is a very comforting theory. I'll be sure to adopt it immediately and regret it later." Being assured that nothing is wrong was usually what happened when everything was wrong he reasoned. Aamon crossed his arms, then uncrossed them a second later because it made him look defensive and he refused to give the hut that satisfaction.
She pressed him over his name. It was not like everyone introduced themselves with their full, legal name. Well, some did. Those that felt that their name held weight, a gravity that would somehow tether them to the people or place they were being inducted into. He found the opposite true, while the Athantos name opened doors, it closed hearts. Emma's words about his name made him pause, though. Just for a second before he looked away. "…It's not just a name," he muttered, quieter, almost to himself; then immediately snapped back into something sharper before it could settle. It was more than a name, it was a legacy, a set of expectations, an introduction and a farewell wrapped into a single word. "But yes, thank you, very insightful," he added quickly, a bit stiff. "I'll simply stop caring. That's clearly how that works."
And then Emma said it again: mudblood. Brother. Aamon blinked. "…I didn't say my brother was..." well, very technically he did. But he was not saying his brother was a mudblood literally, he was calling him one. It was a rude name, a bad word, something used to insult or degrade him. Aamon stopped, pinched the bridge of his nose, and exhaled slowly like he was trying very hard not to unravel this entire conversation.
"No," he corrected, a bit more firmly. "My brother is just awful and I dislike him deeply," and she misunderstood. Entirely. Impressively, actually. He had been in a mood ever since his altercation with Nabi. Why did women decide they needed to wake up one morning and choose war? He had no idea, and all she had really achieved was the ruination of a day he reasoned. He had plenty of those left, probably.
Aamon glanced at Emma as she apologized, the redness in her face not going unnoticed. His expression shifted, just slightly. A bit of guilt crept in, but he was more awkward and guarded than potentially open. "…It's fine," Aamon said after a second, his voice lowering slightly as if the addendum would grant him an additional, unnecessary vulnerability. "You didn't know."
There was another pause, he was the king of awkward silences. Emma seemed to reign over the opposite end of that same spectrum. "Just... pace yourself," Aamon added, gesturing vaguely. "You don't have to ask everything all at once. Some mysteries can remain mysterious for at least…" he searched briefly for an arbitrary time, "ten minutes."
The stranger's laugh pulled a small, reluctant exhale from the boy; something almost like amusement, though he looked mildly annoyed about it. "Why am I so smart?" he repeated, the compliment felt nice, but also unfamiliar. He glanced down at the paper in his hands. "I'm not," if he was, he would have a very different Hogwarts experience. "I just…" he searched for the right way to explain it, "read things other people tend to ignore."
Aamon crouched again, picking up another crumpled note, smoothing it out between his fingers. "And you should have read them," he added, flicking a look up at her. "Illegible usually means personal. Personal usually means important. Or incriminating. Or both." He scanned the page briefly, eyes narrowing. It was chicken-scratch. No, it was like a drunk chicken was doing battle with a rabid turtle and only knew Cyrillic script. It was illegible. His pride prevented him from admitting as much as he stubbornly stuffed the paper into his pocket and muttered "it was all stuff we knew."
Emma's explanation was simple. She found an empty place, opened the door and then entered. There was no logic, just Gryffindor curiosity. "…You opened the door," Aamon repeated slowly. She had no idea what was on the other side, in a world where magic was real, the unknown was terrifying. But that was not the interesting part, it was the fact that the door disappeared for her as well. That meant that whatever happened here was probably not Gideon's doing or not his full intention. It meant Gideon was not the cause, he was an opportunist to some level because Giddy had pushed Aamon inside. "And then it disappeared," he repeated. Aamon turned his head toward where the door should have been and it was still very much not there.
"…Yes," Aamon said after a moment. "That's... deeply concerning," he frowned in contemplation. That meant that Gideon knew about the door. Did he know about the door because he 'pulled an Emma' and decided to break and enter an empty building to explore? No, Gideon was not that sort of person. He enjoyed his comfort and his safety, while he was willing to put both of these at risk, he only did so for greater gains.
"So we're not trapped because of anything we did," Aamon continued, thinking aloud now. "We're trapped because the cabin decided that we are interesting enough to keep." The anthropomorphism of a residence might seem uncanny to some, but they lived in a world where magic was very much real. Where the inanimate could develop to be more than an echo of someone.
Aamon stepped toward the wall where the door had been, pressing his palm lightly against it, testing it like it might suddenly remember its purpose. It didn't, the wall remained very much a wall. "Alright," Aamon muttered. "So: no door, no obvious exit, questionable architecture, and at least one instance of forced entry." He glanced back at her, "if anything starts asking us riddles, I'm leaving you to answer them," he added flatly. He had no head for riddles anyways. "You seem enthusiastic enough."
He knocked on the wall, where the door should have been. A series of firm raps on the wall, then, softer... almost begrudgingly reassuring, "we'll get out." Not that he believed it, but he would not have time for any doubt because.
BOOM
The door bowed inward, in response to his knock and wood blasted the pair. Splintering shrapnel rained down on them. Aamon tried to dive out of the way, there was no thought in the action, just survival instinct as he attempted to dive behind a love seat.
IC:
Aamon watched the strange, short girl. Not in the casual, half-distracted way Aamon usually watched people. No, this was more focused. Slightly wary. Like he was trying to figure out if she was genuinely this earnest or if this was some elaborate trap involving excessive honesty or chatter made to look like candor.
"…Right," the Slytherin said after a moment, slower than usual. "The walls not listening" he paraphrased "is a very comforting theory. I'll be sure to adopt it immediately and regret it later." Being assured that nothing is wrong was usually what happened when everything was wrong he reasoned. Aamon crossed his arms, then uncrossed them a second later because it made him look defensive and he refused to give the hut that satisfaction.
She pressed him over his name. It was not like everyone introduced themselves with their full, legal name. Well, some did. Those that felt that their name held weight, a gravity that would somehow tether them to the people or place they were being inducted into. He found the opposite true, while the Athantos name opened doors, it closed hearts. Emma's words about his name made him pause, though. Just for a second before he looked away. "…It's not just a name," he muttered, quieter, almost to himself; then immediately snapped back into something sharper before it could settle. It was more than a name, it was a legacy, a set of expectations, an introduction and a farewell wrapped into a single word. "But yes, thank you, very insightful," he added quickly, a bit stiff. "I'll simply stop caring. That's clearly how that works."
And then Emma said it again: mudblood. Brother. Aamon blinked. "…I didn't say my brother was..." well, very technically he did. But he was not saying his brother was a mudblood literally, he was calling him one. It was a rude name, a bad word, something used to insult or degrade him. Aamon stopped, pinched the bridge of his nose, and exhaled slowly like he was trying very hard not to unravel this entire conversation.
"No," he corrected, a bit more firmly. "My brother is just awful and I dislike him deeply," and she misunderstood. Entirely. Impressively, actually. He had been in a mood ever since his altercation with Nabi. Why did women decide they needed to wake up one morning and choose war? He had no idea, and all she had really achieved was the ruination of a day he reasoned. He had plenty of those left, probably.
Aamon glanced at Emma as she apologized, the redness in her face not going unnoticed. His expression shifted, just slightly. A bit of guilt crept in, but he was more awkward and guarded than potentially open. "…It's fine," Aamon said after a second, his voice lowering slightly as if the addendum would grant him an additional, unnecessary vulnerability. "You didn't know."
There was another pause, he was the king of awkward silences. Emma seemed to reign over the opposite end of that same spectrum. "Just... pace yourself," Aamon added, gesturing vaguely. "You don't have to ask everything all at once. Some mysteries can remain mysterious for at least…" he searched briefly for an arbitrary time, "ten minutes."
The stranger's laugh pulled a small, reluctant exhale from the boy; something almost like amusement, though he looked mildly annoyed about it. "Why am I so smart?" he repeated, the compliment felt nice, but also unfamiliar. He glanced down at the paper in his hands. "I'm not," if he was, he would have a very different Hogwarts experience. "I just…" he searched for the right way to explain it, "read things other people tend to ignore."
Aamon crouched again, picking up another crumpled note, smoothing it out between his fingers. "And you should have read them," he added, flicking a look up at her. "Illegible usually means personal. Personal usually means important. Or incriminating. Or both." He scanned the page briefly, eyes narrowing. It was chicken-scratch. No, it was like a drunk chicken was doing battle with a rabid turtle and only knew Cyrillic script. It was illegible. His pride prevented him from admitting as much as he stubbornly stuffed the paper into his pocket and muttered "it was all stuff we knew."
Emma's explanation was simple. She found an empty place, opened the door and then entered. There was no logic, just Gryffindor curiosity. "…You opened the door," Aamon repeated slowly. She had no idea what was on the other side, in a world where magic was real, the unknown was terrifying. But that was not the interesting part, it was the fact that the door disappeared for her as well. That meant that whatever happened here was probably not Gideon's doing or not his full intention. It meant Gideon was not the cause, he was an opportunist to some level because Giddy had pushed Aamon inside. "And then it disappeared," he repeated. Aamon turned his head toward where the door should have been and it was still very much not there.
"…Yes," Aamon said after a moment. "That's... deeply concerning," he frowned in contemplation. That meant that Gideon knew about the door. Did he know about the door because he 'pulled an Emma' and decided to break and enter an empty building to explore? No, Gideon was not that sort of person. He enjoyed his comfort and his safety, while he was willing to put both of these at risk, he only did so for greater gains.
"So we're not trapped because of anything we did," Aamon continued, thinking aloud now. "We're trapped because the cabin decided that we are interesting enough to keep." The anthropomorphism of a residence might seem uncanny to some, but they lived in a world where magic was very much real. Where the inanimate could develop to be more than an echo of someone.
Aamon stepped toward the wall where the door had been, pressing his palm lightly against it, testing it like it might suddenly remember its purpose. It didn't, the wall remained very much a wall. "Alright," Aamon muttered. "So: no door, no obvious exit, questionable architecture, and at least one instance of forced entry." He glanced back at her, "if anything starts asking us riddles, I'm leaving you to answer them," he added flatly. He had no head for riddles anyways. "You seem enthusiastic enough."
He knocked on the wall, where the door should have been. A series of firm raps on the wall, then, softer... almost begrudgingly reassuring, "we'll get out." Not that he believed it, but he would not have time for any doubt because.
BOOM
The door bowed inward, in response to his knock and wood blasted the pair. Splintering shrapnel rained down on them. Aamon tried to dive out of the way, there was no thought in the action, just survival instinct as he attempted to dive behind a love seat.
iNPC: Taylor Athanatos
The Path Least Treacherous
M I L OxH A R T M A N
per aspera ad astra
❶ ❷ ❸ ❹ ❺ ❻ ❼
─────────✫
Ignore me.
@Winnie Athanatos, @Gideon Athanatos | Spying19/04/2026The Path Least Treacherous
Last edited by Milo Hartman on 29 Apr 2026, 23:04, edited 1 time in total.