Private Musings
The Headmasters Office was a rather lonesome space, it lacked the warmth and life of the rest of the castle. It was not a physical chill, in fact the room was a bit warm. A fire crackled within the hearth, the scent of burning pine and cedar gave the space a rustic scent. The walls were still for the most part bare, the paintings stolen some time ago were never recovered however sparse pieces of art hung on the otherwise barren walls, some newly hung.
There was a celebration in the Great Hall, springtime festivities. They did not call it a Blossom Ball this year but the outcome would likely be the same. A room of reckless children, a world filled with callous adults and the political undermining of madman created for not just a dangerous climate but one that the children would obstinately insist they must die to. It was just the way children were -- loft expectations, selfish ambitions and the belief that infallible, wise adults only failed to protect them or abide by them because they chose not to. That their suffering, that they lacked for something because adults willed it so. Yet they were not particularly willing to live within the confines placed by those very adults to ensure the experiences that they sought. It was a hardly charming conundrum.
So while the music played, the children danced... he knew it would devolve as it always had. That some child would start a fight, that another would fail to consider the consequences of their choice. All of this compounded on the fact that the world was watching them. The advent of the Hexwizard Tournament was not some 'fun' diversion from the humdrum dallying, it was at the very least a tool but it was more likely a weapon.
There was a celebration in the Great Hall, springtime festivities. They did not call it a Blossom Ball this year but the outcome would likely be the same. A room of reckless children, a world filled with callous adults and the political undermining of madman created for not just a dangerous climate but one that the children would obstinately insist they must die to. It was just the way children were -- loft expectations, selfish ambitions and the belief that infallible, wise adults only failed to protect them or abide by them because they chose not to. That their suffering, that they lacked for something because adults willed it so. Yet they were not particularly willing to live within the confines placed by those very adults to ensure the experiences that they sought. It was a hardly charming conundrum.
So while the music played, the children danced... he knew it would devolve as it always had. That some child would start a fight, that another would fail to consider the consequences of their choice. All of this compounded on the fact that the world was watching them. The advent of the Hexwizard Tournament was not some 'fun' diversion from the humdrum dallying, it was at the very least a tool but it was more likely a weapon.
Last edited by Hjørdis Jensen on 7 Apr 2022, 21:39, edited 1 time in total.
Reason: Incorrect topic type, changed to RPG :)
There is something about ambition, how it not only propels you but also defines you.
Private Musings
The Headmaster's Office was rather isolated from the rest of the castle. It was an unsettling scenario, facing Solomon Lear after all those years. They were not friends, colleges at times, associates at others, but never friends. The last time Lazarus saw Solomon was more than two years ago, before his disappearance. Before he saw Hogwarts for what it truly was, a festering pit of rot that the Ministry was playing off as some sort of hidden gem.
It was a fucking embarrassment and insult.
The door was shut and he would pause for a moment in wait. Was it perhaps second thoughts? No, he had already rehearsed what he intended to say, how this meeting between them would go. How the confrontation would end. Solomon Lear was nothing but a liar, a glory hound that had run the track too long. No knock. The password was simple enough, he never changed it and if the sagging frame was any indication it would seem as if his son had done more damage than anyone was prepared to repair.
Yes, he knew the fate of Solomon Lear on that fall evening. He was not the direct cause but he was complicit in the events that transpired that evening and those the months that followed. He would barge into the office with a smile and a flourish of his cape. "Solomon, it has been a long time..."
There is something about ambition, how it not only propels you but also defines you.
Private Musings
"Get. Out." Pleasantries were wasted on a swindler like Lazarus Plott. Some men were showmen, such as Plott. Their ego required it, to be seen, to be the center of attention, for everyone to be talking about them. To an extent he understood it. He was no better, he knew fully the lengths he would go to be in the limelight. The lengths men would go to stay. What men are willing to give up...
He gave up everything once upon a time. He could have made better choices, had he his daughter might still be alive, he would not have been estranged from his wife and his son(s). The one he knew of died hating him and with his death at the ball those years ago, stabbed in the eye whilst bound by an overzealous student, he thought his son simply died in the fray to injuries already sustained not that it ultimately mattered. Had he prioritized his family, kept hold of his wandering eye among other things... If he did not incessantly seek the attention of the media, share where he was at all times, that madman would never have broke into his home and hurt his little girl. If he was willing to accept the losses for what they were, he would still have his youth rather than this accursed visage of an elderly man. Everything broke down because he was selfish, because everything had to be about him.
"You can tell the world whatever you want about me, it won't change a thing Lazarus," Solomon answered. That should have been his answer those years ago when he became flustered, when his guard was down and when they came crashing through that very door Plott had invited himself to enter. "Are you going to bring another band of bullies to cause chaos this evening Plott or are you going to let the kids have a single evening without trauma?"
He gave up everything once upon a time. He could have made better choices, had he his daughter might still be alive, he would not have been estranged from his wife and his son(s). The one he knew of died hating him and with his death at the ball those years ago, stabbed in the eye whilst bound by an overzealous student, he thought his son simply died in the fray to injuries already sustained not that it ultimately mattered. Had he prioritized his family, kept hold of his wandering eye among other things... If he did not incessantly seek the attention of the media, share where he was at all times, that madman would never have broke into his home and hurt his little girl. If he was willing to accept the losses for what they were, he would still have his youth rather than this accursed visage of an elderly man. Everything broke down because he was selfish, because everything had to be about him.
"You can tell the world whatever you want about me, it won't change a thing Lazarus," Solomon answered. That should have been his answer those years ago when he became flustered, when his guard was down and when they came crashing through that very door Plott had invited himself to enter. "Are you going to bring another band of bullies to cause chaos this evening Plott or are you going to let the kids have a single evening without trauma?"
There is something about ambition, how it not only propels you but also defines you.
Private Musings
"Well, you're as much fun as always," he commented. In truth he was not particularly fussed by the Hogwarts Headmaster's sour reception. It takes a liar to identify a liar, and the "famed" Solomon Lear was nothing more than a fraud. A truth that mustered greater fear back then than it did now, he seemed relatively indifferent. "And I had nothing to do with party-crashers, I just did not do anything to stop them," he smiled a bit. It was not a kind expression. "You know... Hogwarts has become a dangerous place since the inclusion of half-breeds and monsters. It is not the rest of the world's responsibility to protect you and what is yours from your terrible choices."
He took a seat and made himself comfortable. From his breast pocket he would take a cigarette between his fingers and leave the fag between his teeth. *Snap* A flick of his finger, not a word uttered, a flame erupted at the end of his cigarette. Cloves. A soothing smoke that filled his lungs, making the stress of the day melt away. "I am here to discuss the Hexwizard," he went on. "I have some expectations," he announced before he took a drag.
There is something about ambition, how it not only propels you but also defines you.
Private Musings
Everyone had expectations, especially for the Hexwizard. "I love the fact that you think I have any power over the Hexwizard selection," a brazen lie of course. The Hogwarts champion was already pre-selected. A stand-out in his year for durability, a penchant for violence but overall well-liked and respected. A half-breed to boot, should set the wizarding world ablaze. "I have no intention of helping you, you will have to ensure your wants are met by crossing over an unburnt bridge," Solomon announced with a coldness that had become characteristic in the time since his rescue.
"I spent months in hell because of those women," he did not call them hags oddly enough. It was the "crying closet" a place of nightmares and pain. "Because of you," his choice to say nothing and rather investigate how these matters would potentially effect Ilvermorny left an unknown number of students victim to the hags also. "People have suffered and died. Because of you, they were given a foothold among wizards and the damage done is unknown. They almost turned one girl, thankfully they were unsuccessful," so do he thought. They had turned one girl, Marion Davenport. She was not always a hag, but she was at one time a witch. "Do you honestly think telling the world that I was not the brilliant magizoologist truly matters in the scope of things," he was just the face back when he was the famed tamer of the untamable. In truth he never tamed an untamable beast and the feasts that were seen were manufactured thanks to his late partner Bucky who died years ago due to Solomon's greed and negligence.
"So just leave before you are removed from this country in a ring box." A threat.
"I spent months in hell because of those women," he did not call them hags oddly enough. It was the "crying closet" a place of nightmares and pain. "Because of you," his choice to say nothing and rather investigate how these matters would potentially effect Ilvermorny left an unknown number of students victim to the hags also. "People have suffered and died. Because of you, they were given a foothold among wizards and the damage done is unknown. They almost turned one girl, thankfully they were unsuccessful," so do he thought. They had turned one girl, Marion Davenport. She was not always a hag, but she was at one time a witch. "Do you honestly think telling the world that I was not the brilliant magizoologist truly matters in the scope of things," he was just the face back when he was the famed tamer of the untamable. In truth he never tamed an untamable beast and the feasts that were seen were manufactured thanks to his late partner Bucky who died years ago due to Solomon's greed and negligence.
"So just leave before you are removed from this country in a ring box." A threat.
There is something about ambition, how it not only propels you but also defines you.
Private Musings
In truth, only one would leave the room and it was not Solomon Lear. With a confident stride Lazarus Plott would leave through the door he came with a god-damned smile on his face whistling a show tune most of these wizards would not know. The old man would be fine, in a few hours. The best fights are won without ever drawing a wand.
If anyone came searching for Solomon they would find him face-down on the floor. The only sign of struggle being the papers that were on the desk were now on the floor. The papers seemed to be both on top of the unconscious man as well as below him. A quill still clasped in his left hand, his wand was still in its holster. The actual room itself was mildly disturbed, the drawers were ajar, there was a small item missing from the top left that would eventually be missed - a bauble really that seemed fitting for the day. Never go anyplace unprepared.
He flicked away his cigarette, leaving the stump in the twisting stair. A house elf will get to that at some point later. It was a shame a place like this with such potential was allowed to remain so dreary and drab.
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There is something about ambition, how it not only propels you but also defines you.