Cause of Crazy Group

Howard couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that had stayed with him ever since Alan had approached him during breakfast. When he had first heard his voice he had turned to greet his friend just like he would any other day, but as soon as he looked him over Howard knew something was wrong. There was always a way about hid Gryffindor friend, an aura almost that set him at ease. He could relax around Alan, let his worries slip away as they talked and laughed together. However, today something was off. He looked pale and fatigued with dark circles forming around his eyes. Usually they would sit with each other for the duration of the meal, but this time it was nothing more than rushed whispers. The subject left a pit in Howard's stomach.

So, Howard would make sure to be on time as he rushed towards the DADA classroom. As he entered he would startled Alan who would jump form his chair that was sent crashing to the floor. The Dhampir rushed forward and scoop up the chair before he reach out for Alan's shoulder. With a reassuring squeeze he would say, "Alan, try and relax buddy. We'll get to the bottom of this ok." He did his best to remain calm and hoped that for once it would be him that helped his friend relax.

@Bridget Collins | @Levi Drakos | @Alan Vanes | @Orion Lecuyer

@Alan Vanes, @Howard White, @Percival Gray, @Levi Drakos, @Orion Lécuyer

To be delivered such a short note, the owl dropping her a single line of handwriting, was not a typical occurrence. But it wasn't the first time she'd been given a time, place, and nothing else, and just the name scrawled at the end said a lot. She processed it with equal parts excitement and trepidation, because if Alan wanted to meet, then he must have found something. Finding something was a relief after chasing answers in circles, but also, more likely than not, grim news. A little more explanation to go along with the meeting place would have been nice to give her a better sense of what to expect, but she could survive the whirling thoughts of speculation until tomorrow.

Her evening was spent reviewing her research notes. While fairly sure they were mostly useless, having the observations and hypotheses fresh in her mind might be helpful. She'd also penned a short note of her own to Percival Gray. She didn't know him in any significant way, but it was his image in Santario's locket, and that counted for something. As worried as she was, he was likely faring worse, and she knew she would want to be involved in anything like this concerning one of her friends. He deserved to know.

It would be just around ten that she found herself approaching the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom on a Sunday. The door was open, and she entered to find Alan and another boy, Howard White. She was briefly surprised, since the note hadn't said anything of this being a group, but it was honestly a good thing. Santiaro's letter to Thomas that she'd read so long ago told them to have numbers, and three was better than two, four even more so if Percival showed up. "Hi," she piped up, giving a little wave.

After finding a desk to lean against, she added, "I invited Percival Gray." She did not sound particularly confident sharing that, unsure of how they'd react. Trust didn't come easily to some, understandably, and she had no way of knowing if they were familiar with Percival or how they'd feel about another person joining. Thomas had been particularly averse to involving him, though in the months since Bridget hadn't found any reason to keep away from him. "It seemed only fair, since he's close to her."

Mentioning | @Santario Martin

Interacting | @Alan Vanes | @Howard White | @Bridget Collins

If Orion was a gambling man, he would bet that Alan Vanes was not the prankster type. A prefect and a rather excellent student, he could not fathom why the boy would send him a note about a student being in trouble, especially if that student was Santario Martin. Although the wait time was agonizing, it was not something he was unused to. Patience had played a key role in his former career, after all.

Leaving the Defense Against the Dark Arts room open was not something the Frenchman was usually comfortable with, given the dangers that often lurked inside, but it was the requested meeting area, so the usual anti-Alohomora charm and bolted lock had been left neglected. When the enchanted pocket watch in the pocket of his suit jacket changed to 10:00, he exited his office and made his way over to his classroom.

"Mr. Vanes. I see you've brought a few friends with you." He commented as he closed the heavy wooden door behind him, his eyes flickering over to Bridget and Howard. He gave the two a nod as a greeting. He was not surprised that Alan had brought company. If Santario truly was in danger, they would need to devise a plan. "Mr. White, Ms. Collins, I would say I'm happy to see you, but given the circumstances..." Rion trailed off, swallowing the lump caught in his throat.

He had no intention of showing the children any sign that he was worried, but of course he was. He had come to care for all of his students and would protect any of them, but his bond with Santario was different. He had taken on a parental role, and his need to protect his pseudo daughter threatened to break through the decades of training, shattering the mask he wore.

"I suppose there is no need for pleasant conversation, so I'll get to the point; would you care to explain this note?" Fingers dipped into the chest pocket of his suit to retrieve the message Alan had left for him.

@Alan Vanes @Howard White @Bridget Collins

There wasn't a second that went past where he didn't think of San, even if something inside of him told otherwise his deep connection with the girl had always kept intact. When she didn't write back to his owls Gray was saddened for sure, but he never gave up hope that San herself wasn't to blame for her behavior but something else more sinister. And, since returning to Hogwarts it only seemed to be that way.

The stories and encounters he had with the once perfect girl were ones of nightmare fuel. It was clear she wasn't the same San he knew, but a complete opposite of what she used to be altogether. Her appearance, the way she acted, former habits, they had all been thrown out the window like nothing. She was sick, and at some point, something needed to be done to bring back the San they all knew too well.

Upon waking up yesterday morning, he received a letter from a Ravenclaw known as Bridget Collins. He had seen her a few times around the castle but didn't know her awfully well. Even so, she let him know of a special meeting tomorrow to talk about the state of San, and possibly find answers he desperately craved. Without even replying, he was going to turn up and figure out what in merlin was going on. Who knew if they'd even want him there anyway...

Standing in the doorway, he silently glared at each person in the room in silent judgment. His pale face and tired eyes landed first on the professor, who seemed quite out of place in this scenario. Percival had not had a chance to know Orion much other than obviously being his teacher, and something about his attitude towards him made Gray wonder if he had a grudge against him. If he did, they'd need to shove that aside and focus on the main objective. Sans safety.

Other than Howard, he had met them at least more than once, especially Vanes who was a prefect with him. He'd seen White, but he, unfortunately, had never muttered a word to the boy "Greetings everyone..." he mumbled nonchalantly, walking his form into the room and standing next to the teacher "Percival Gray, Collins invited me to be here" he said, just in case, they didn't know of his sudden appearance "I'm... I'm a very close friend to San and I'm sure the rest of you are concerned about her health, no?" Gray questioned, leaning up against the table to rest his already tired body

"May I know your name before we start?" he motioned to Howard, making sure to learn the stranger's name before they started.

@Alan Vanes, @Howard White, @Bridget Collins, @Orion Lécuyer, @Percival Gray

Levi had finally gotten the sweet tasting hours of his decent night’s sleep. Well, not consecutively, but the additional hour and a half of the breezy dusk this morning had edged the glass for this week’s eight. His blood was running milky through his cheeks and forearms, complexion whiter than the winter’s snow still sporadically settled on the bare limbs of the Grounds. He’d been spending most days shielded from the sun, heat that burned like a watermelon-shaded blaze brushing the bony rim of his jaw. They caved inward to the center of his throat, lining drooping like a canopy around his narrow airway. He was sheltered in the shadow’s of a few older years, evading the judgemental gazes of his classmates, irises sparkling with a sense of pity or repulsion and never a shred of anything in between.

For breakfast, he ate as much as any growing boy did, particularly any growing boy that had been bitten by their crush, and in a way that left the lesser desired bruise. His shirt collar did a sufficient job concealing the remnants and the early darkening of a lifelong scar, provided he minimized his shifting and thus waddled through the Great Hall with all the stiffness of pride and none of the arrogance itself. He’d been concealed behind Alan Vanes, a boy he knew two ways: a fifth-year among the Prefects of his house, and one with whom Santario had spoken to some odd number of times.

Say he was there taking advantage of their height difference, but something powdery, some feeling grinded deeply in an organ with no name and place, was eager. Perhaps feeling some shred of coolness, an unknown radiated cold front that soothed the consistent burn buried under imperfect flesh beneath the top button. Even had that led him to his bubble, what kept him was the proposition of the Prefect to a fellow, mysterious senior of Levi’s. An almost corpsely appearance, one so similar to the haunting reflection of a boy aged a hundred years, but with a certain effortless grace that didn’t translate to thirty nights unslept.

It was cast in their daunting shade he’d heard of this meeting, this assembly that bled her name when sliced and peeled to its barest. He was hesitant. Each time the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom flashed into his imagination, the brunet flinched, her memory piercing his skin and ripping the fabric on a discarded shirt. Staining his current shirt with the kind of figmental blood that didn’t wash out with hydrogen peroxide or the aroma of lemon that wafts through the keyhole, evading the trapped bobby pin. The young lion often took a few steps down the corridor before falling back several more, stumbled by the heavy winds of his own previously unheard of inhibitions.

But he did go. Eventually. Waited with parted lips a corner away until what was presumably the last of this breakfast bunch slipped through the door to the class. Even then his pace was slow, stride inexperienced. He filed in a couple arrhythmic heartbeats after “Percival Gray” himself, another Slytherin that made regular appearances both in Levi’s nightmares and his dimmest, most precious dreams. His tongue was quick to spit and his neck was quick to char with a dose of acidic serum, a poison engineered by and for those just barely lacking too much to properly handle such a wound. It was a shame.

“Before-you-kick-me-out,” His words merged into one, then the forgotten charmer steadied himself with a breath, hazel gaze studying the group. The Professor himself, a presence of authority that made Levi second-guess how to phrase his script. The Prefect he’d overheard this from, the mysterious boy he was speaking to, a pretty girl notably without fangs, and Percival “Mattperce” Gray. To them, he was either a stranger to the cause wandered in, allured by scattered voices, or a stalker depending on how vocal his beautiful Trophy had been about her observations. Neither would perform well with this crowd.

“You’re here about it. Er, Santario,” he shifted his weight, “right?” He would wait for some confirmation before going on, hand fumbling behind him to ensure the exit was his to abuse. “I-- well,” He couldn’t tell them about the bite. He wouldn’t. “I know something that will help you. I know she is acting off.” Cannibalistic, even. “That she’s sick. Acting rash.” Mentally Levi was tearing the pages of the dictionary as hard as he fumbled through, tying all the vague words together to avoid the sickening truth he wasn’t, and perhaps never would be, prepared to confess. Unfortunately, his wrinkled shirt betrayed him, rippling over his collar as his throat pulsed with that imposturous inflection, and anyone looking at him could see the flickers of the canine-dented ring that would decorate him for life.