A Snake that Would Fly with Eagles OPEN Closed

Mentioning: @Colin McCoire | Dialogue Hex: #143314

Curiosity had already killed the proverbial cat, and it would get the rest of the cursed student body impaled on their own stunning lack of intellect if not for the laws of the equally cursed land that was the ever hoggy, ever warty school of Hogwarts. Obviously, it was with pride and joy Leonard Wendell Oaksworth had returned to his future alma mater, the magical place that promised him a myriad of experiences that would make his future even more in need of a therapist or two hundred and fifty-nine. The first week of his third year had delivered quite well on that promise, and though it was to be expected by now, it nevertheless shook his insides up like the world’s least tasty smoothie. No bites had been taken out of him yet, but were a chunk to be ripped apart from his corporal form via wolf, hag, or fellow classmate, he was sure it would be an unpleasant event for all parties involved. Perhaps that was his pride talking, though, and cripes be it did the boy have pride to talk. For a snake, a loyal one who wrote up horrible puns on posters to diminish other teams’ spirits at that, he had an awfully large quantity of hairy beasts in him pouncing to roar away every single one of his problems, but neither did those hairy beasts cause anything but bad in his life nor actually scare away his problems. So, he took it upon himself to solve the nine hundred and ninety-nine dilemmas, to shoo away the drawbacks, and to leap over difficulties like he was an Olympic competitor. Unfortunately, he, literally and figuratively, had the athleticism of a ceramic bathtub and the problem-solving skills of a rubber shoe, though not of any fault of his own, thank you very much. It was Hogwarts’ fault, it was. Turning everything topsy-turvy, moulding his utterly organised existence into a mess of slop that slid and swept down a labyrinth of staircases.

He was sure he could solve his problems, rubber shoe or not. Indeed, from flimsy rubber shoe to hardened gumshoe Leonard would become as he made it a personal mission to explore every nook and cranny he could get his scrawny form into. Innovation was how progress was made, and it was about time he got used to active innovation rather than spending all his time cooped up in his bedroom. Yes, he would now spend only 7/8ths of his time in his bedroom, a risky move but one he would make the best of.

The owlery wasn’t exactly a new nook nor a contemporary cranny, unsurprisingly. Still yet, Leonard made a habit of visiting it every week to collect and send messages from and to his family. He was sure his father would appreciate the recent bold developments in his son’s life and that his mother would be glad of his scores on his returning History of Magic test, so he had perfectly good reasons to visit the feather-full area. He just had to stray from getting another one of those feathers up his nose and sneezing for half a minute straight, he did. He also needed to make sure his trusty companion Merlin Normandy Leonardius Rosconai Owain Ddraig-Oaksworth, which was a task easier said than done.

“Oh, Merlin!” The frustrated cry of a single (animal) father echoed slightly in the circular stone room, and it was merged with a groan Leonard found himself letting out more and more often these days. He loved Merlin, he really did, but he didn’t know how he was going to get anything done if the beardie continued to audition for the starring role of Reptilian Indiana Jones. Leonard ran into the owlery, stopping short in his dusty tracks upon seeing another being in the room. It looked human, possibly a first year based on how the Slytherin didn’t have memories of seeing the entity in class, but deceiving looks were nothing but the norm when metamorphagi and a number of mythological monsters existed. A few inches shorter than Leonard, as well.

“Er, hello.” He waved to the shorter boy–a stilted action that took place in four acts: the raising of the hand, the movement of the hand to the left, the movement of the hand to the right, and the putting of the hand into his pocket. An awkward smile was the follow-up action, which he hoped would be charismatic enough for the black-haired boy opposite him to spare him from a horrid fate. Seemingly exhausted from the short fit of exercise, Merlin crawled up to rest on Leonard’s shoulder. “Apologies for my little dragon, he’s a bit of a runner. A right solid sleeper, luckily, so no need to worry about him scaring away every owl in Scotland. For, uh, for now, at least.”

Interacting With: @Colin McCoire | Dialogue Hex: #143314

There was not one individual within castle campus, Leonard was certain, who hadn’t a sense for trouble. This was not to imply in the slightest that it was a scarce moment within school schedule that his peril-seeking peers, their poorly chosen pets, the poltergeists that routinely possessed his dormmates, and even what he hoped was a minority among his professors found opportunity to ruin the never-starting streak of days without blithering balderdash that left boiling bruises upon the history section of their advertising pamphlets. One knowing there to be trouble around the corners of a creepy corridor or waiting in their wand when a spell in such a situation spelled nothing but disaster did not, quite unfortunately, equate to one preventing this trouble by simply removing oneself from the situation entirely. Though the boy did, of course, find himself in the odd pickle, zucchini, or aubergine here and there, such could only be the fault of anything and everything else. Indeed, his school spirit was better likened to a malnourished Victorian chimney sweep who spent their afterlife moaning and groaning about, too tired to regularly cheer on their abominable academy but too sensible to leave it along with an inexpensive education in the dust. It was on a fine September day, however, that the formerly fine Slytherin found nothing else to blame. It was he who spoke the first syllable in a barren bid to distract from his bearded lizard’s careless wiles. It was he who greeted the person who hadn’t any other reason to notice him, it was he who now had to commit to the bit with his ever-wooden wave.

Must’ve been some enchanted wind possessing him. Very blame-able, very plausible.

“Ciarán…?” He muttered the name with a suddenly sparked sense of curiosity, conjuring cognitive portraits of the writer’s recipient that were all but accurate. Was Ciarán the mastermind behind every notable event at Hogwarts, a puppeteer only communicating through birds? Was Ciarán a guardian, a relative of blood or water, aware to the unusual means of which the black-haired boy was receiving education and sending messages or oblivious? If so, was it with or without the influence of a memory charm? Was Ciarán a muggle or magical friend, and what could their intentions be? How much information had the writer himself intended to reveal, how much would Ciarán receive, and how would Ciarán use it? Was Ciarán the name of an organisation, rather, and what could their intentions be? Most essentially, was Ciarán going to swoop in and save Leonard as the writer finally looked at him?

To say Leonard Oaksworth was surprised hadn’t many criteria in spite of the fact his eyes grew centuries older with each display of how fellow thirteen-year-olds could engage in activities best suited for either three-year-olds or thirty-year-olds. As a scientist and theoretician, he objectively knew that there would be outside forces whose power he could not pinpoint, whose source would remain in the shadows and shock him forevermore. As someone who heard that Bethany Something’s father was involved with a Knockturn Alley shopkeeper in varying degrees of disreputability for the hundredth time at breakfast, he did not care. Yet, he could not not care when faced with a problem he’d created. His quick analysis of the only other person in the area did not proffer an immediate solution to the aforementioned problem. Instead, it revealed that the other was a Slytherin, though not one Leonard could recall seeing, and a courteous one, which was etiquette Leonard couldn’t recall seeing since nursery. As he waved and he was, apparently, labeled a ‘Sir’, he found the other ophidian to frown at something or other, piercing green eyes meeting his own swampy grey-brown. With such conduct, Leonard straightened his spine to a right angle unlike any other and made sure to match the stare, though still more examining than fully and scathingly judging.

“Sir? Well, I certainly appreciate your formality and politeness, Master, but I reckon I’ve yet to quite reach the age quota. I’m only a third year, you know. Only in quotes, mind you, this place makes me feel like I’ve aged centuries.” He, out of instinct and just a dash of paranoia, put his right arm in his trouser pocket while his left was free to gesture around ‘this place’. His voice had a certain lilt to it that spoke of hushed lightsome, though his scrutinisation of the sir-calling, non-waving master plainly revealed he hadn’t befriending in mind just yet. Surface formality and politeness towards a stranger didn’t equate to a formal and polite person, and all the evidence he needed could be found in a mirror.

“I wouldn’t even think of replacing my smart little–what was it you said, beastockie? Yes, while owls are certainly useful, feathers becoming bothersome in the nasal area and being rather uncommon where I live have caused me to rather than adopting my own.” He took one hand to scratch the nape of his lizard’s neck to punctuate their (hopefully) mutual devotion. The term applied to the baby bearded dragon was not one he’d heard previously, but he was willing to let such dictionary discrepancies slide in consideration of regional differences and the other boy having a brain functional enough to see his pet’s indubitable genius. After a pause spent pointedly pondering the comment about meditation, he continued with an explanatory sort of tone rather than the panicked one he’d begun with. “I believe we’re all sad about something, you know, but I find that us slithering students are among those most burdened with necessary intelligence. Of course, there are exceptions, and I encourage you to be wary of them. Or perhaps my mother’s womb simply forgot to flick the switch for allowing me a smile, who knows? No matter about that, though, I’ve just come to send off some letters to my parents in Brighton.”

“Would you mind stating your business here in the Owlery?” He cleared his throat upon realisation of how, for lack of a better term that encompassed the muddled myriad of emotions young Master Beastockie must have felt. Like a suspect being interrogated, perhaps, or a student awaiting a strict scolding from the headmaster. “I mean, obviously, you aren’t obligated to do so in any way, shape, or form, but I don’t believe I’ve seen you around before. I don’t visit here often, if we’re offering up explanations. My father usually sends his letters throughout the week, while I reply in bulk on Saturdays. That’s what you need in this place, a good schedule.”

What else did Leonard need? To shut the bloody hell up. He promptly went to silently demonstrate how he was to send a handful of essay-length envelopes, never taking his gaze off Master Beastockie.

Colin observed the older boy, not so much out of curiosity as out of self-preservation. This was a fair exchange, Colin considered: clearly whoever this boy is, he's trying to figure me out. Colin could only wonder: what possible reason would an older boy have to so closely scrutinise him? It couldn't be out of any desire to be friends. He'd noticed that very few older Slytherins ever interacted with their younger housemates. Unless it was to order them around or use them as practice dummies.

And then the strange boy said his sister's name. Ciarán. Colin's eyes narrowed slightly. He shouldn't be surprised: he'd expressed his wish for her to write back soon loudly enough! But, why would he say her name as if he memorising some critical piece of information, as if he were studying for an exam and had to remember something about the uses of wormwood infusion or asphodel flowers?

His eyes widened and his mouth opened slightly in shock. Colin took half a step back giving himself a little more distance between them. How long had he been there? Was this boy spying on him? Colin's mind raced, trying to recall if he'd said anything incriminating aloud. He couldn't recall... But it struck him that if this other boy new knew Ciarán's name, it wouldn't be difficult to trace him and perhaps even locate persons who would be more than happy to relate his --- condition --- to certain interested parties. Laws notwithstanding, there were still plenty of people who would not bat an eye at the extermination of one more monster.

Then the boy started to speak. He seemed surprised at Colin's mode of address. Well, how else was one supposed to address an older student? 'Hullo mate!' didn't seem quite appropriate. The rest of the boy's words faded as Colin caught a glimpse of motion. A hand sliding into a pocket! Right hand. Colin's nostrils flared and he slipped his left hand into the pocket of his robes. His body tensed slightly. Was this other boy really going to draw his wand on him!

Colin's attention slid back to the boy's curious speech, but he continued to monitor his right hand. Just in case. Not that there was really any defense he could muster. Well, not of the magical sort, anyway. Colin decided that the instant he saw a wand being drawn, he'd give his attacker a swift kick. Didn't matter where. Just somewhere --- vital.

His speech touched on how Hogwarts had aged him so. Probably too many days spent closeted in some smelly potions lab. And then on to the topic of owls and the messiness of their feathers. Colin didn't have a pet, and couldn't really see the point in having on. If he wanted to pat a cat, there were plenty around. And the whole place literally swam with wildlife! Beasties that could look after themselves and that one could befriend if one but tried.

The boy scratched the lizard's neck. The lizard stared with apparent disinterest.

And then his speech turned towards deeper waters. Of sadness and the particular sorrow of the Slytherin condition. Colin narrowed his eyes again. We're all sad about something --- was he trying to pry out Colin's own sorrows? Those things he hadn't even told his best friends about yet? He wondered if he would end up as mental as this boy clearly was, by the time he himself reached third year. If he survived that long.

Colin wondered what he meant about 'exceptions' and the need to be wary of such. Colin was simply wary of everyone. It worked out better that way: expect the worst of people, and when the worst happens, you won't be disappointed!

And then the speech ended. Colin was becoming convinced that the boy talked that way not so much to impart information as to use the time for calculation, for observation and for determining what the other person was about. Happily, Colin thought, that strategy works both ways! And the boy simply turned from philosopher to child sending letters home to Ma and Da. Just like anyone else.

The flip in polarity didn't last long, Colin noted.

“Would you mind stating your business here in the Owlery?” the boy said. He sounded like one of the Ministry blokes his Ma had to deal with. All clippy and professional; suddenly like an auror questioning a deviant about his questionable activities. Colin blunk his eyes a couple times at the change in demeanour.

And then as suddenly as the boy had turned Poirot, he pivoted again, only this time back to his younger self, only, it seemed, slightly more like an embarrassed boy and less like an automaton. Colin took the change in tone charitably as an apology, perhaps, for what he might have deemed too strong or too accusatory a tone in his questioning.

Curious, though, Colin thought, how neither of us have taken our eyes off each other. Like two strange wolves meeting for the first time, unsure what the other is up to. Colin smirked slightly. "Isn't that the truth of it, dear Slytherin?" he whispered to himself.

Colin determined that, far from being innocuous, the older boy would require further observation. His motives were unclear. He was clearly intelligent and well spoken; Colin felt sure that there was more going on under the surface than the boy's various twitches and tics and expressions let on. He didn't sense anything overtly evil about the boy --- but he was aware that there were powers even beyond magic that could conceal poison with sugar. He felt fairly certain that the boy walked in daily companionship with troubles and cares of his own, just as Colin himself did.

"Ciarán." Colin stated the name as if it were self explanatory. Of course, to him, the name was completely self explanatory! The name is the person, in perfect identity. "I am her --- informant." Colin's gaze focused on the other boy's eyes. "She asks questions --- Hogwarts, news, people. I seek to satisfy her endless curiosity! She is curious about everything, the castle, the grounds, the countryside around. But mostly she is curious about --- people. I think I shall be writing another letter very soon!"

Interacting with @Leonard Oaksworth