| xx |
"Dreams."
"Hallucinations!"
"I bet you ten galleons, it's insanity."
Word travelled through the castle at astonishing speeds, whispers flowing through the student body like gusts of wind. They travelled, and then bloomed, and then encased, until they consumed you whole. Rumours were carnivorous, engaging in nothing but predation to corrupt the souls of those who allowed the hushed breaths to reach them. In a place as antiquated as Hogwarts, the walls were undoubtedly permeable. The walls themselves seemed to carry the secrets that many desired to remain hidden. Perhaps buried within her ancient brick and stone were accusations of derangement and concealed identities that have long since remained clandestine. Ebony Vetra was not usually one to be corrupted by such rumour mills; the words that were transmitted along the grapevine were of zero relevance to her daily activities. As somebody who preached practicality and seclusion, somebody so often shrouded in the shadows, the frequently dramaticised hearsay of somebody's boyfriend who cheated on his partner with her best friend was far from significant. There were more pertinent matters to be dealt with — matters that did not concern some poor girl's dating life.
Such pertinent matters did not include tutoring either, however. The room was devoid of individuals — at least for now. Books lay strewn across tables, with Magical Theory and A History of Magic being among them. They left something almost reminiscent of an imprint of knowledge, of both the teaching prowess of the professor and the students' aptitude for learning. Perhaps the individual she was set to tutor would do well to absorb some of those imprints. One didn't just require tutoring. It was reserved for those who were situated not even at the bottom of the academic ladder, but for those who neglected the ladder entirely; for those who were in a pit. For those who had no desire to gain knowledge. The books were distributed unevenly, with more conglomerated at the very forefront of the classroom, near the professor's desk. Perhaps it served as a reminder that some students possessed a higher willingness to submit themselves to the academic system. She dared to say, even, that there existed a disparity between those who held natural aptitude for studying and those who did not — or those who did not will to.
Valour Argentum most certainly belonged to the latter. Having been assigned to tutor this individual, the Ravenclaw found it most interesting to speculate upon the reasons for which they may have been subject to such drastic measures. Stupidity, perhaps. Idiocy. Incompetence. Laziness, most likely — oftentimes, students who were blessed with sufficient brain cells were held back by their own lack of willingness to act. Ebony herself was no stranger to indolence, but she did not allow it to overtake her. Some strived for utmost flawlessness; avid perfectionist she was not, for it was not the hunt for excellence that fueled her, but she allowed herself to exert sufficient labour such that she would be able to satisfactorily reap its fruits. Some did not hold this desire.
Or some were perhaps driven too deep into the spiral of insanity to pay an ounce of attention to academics. The Ravenclaw was not subscribed to the rumour mill, no, but if one was not living under a rock, whispers could be heard. Inevitably. The walls are omniscient and omnipresent. They say that she is mad. A ghost, drained visage and crazed eyes. Muscles stiffening, abruptly rigid, body contracting. She was hallucinating, they would say. Nonsensical words would ostensibly spill from her mouth. The fifth year wondered how much had been dramaticised. The word "seer" had even been tossed into the air several times, though they dissipated into the breeze quickly enough. Ebony — among other students — doubted the validity of such claims. Fraudulent impersonators they were, those self-proclaimed seers.
All speculation and hearsay, of course. But the girl could not refrain from making judgements before setting eyes on the person, for what is a book without word of mouth? Before even setting eyes on its cover, it is people's words on the matter that one is first exposed to.
The name sounded familiar, almost. A whisper from the past. Argentum, Argentum, Argentum. There was a wisp, an obscure thread hidden in the depths of the treasure trove that was memory. How fallible memory was. So fragile it stands, so easily lost, so easily let go to slip away under the river of time. The mind was so easily consumed, yet held matters of such substantial importance. History lay buried deep beneath one's musings, beneath the layers of present day worries. That name — Argentum — had formed a part of that history, she knew, but it could not be recalled. The brunette grasped helplessly at the faded outline of recollections, but no prominent image came.
Wooden chair grating on wooden floor, she sat in wait of the alleged insane.
|
xx |
