Closed New Friends PV Ulysses Drake

The little shit had spilled ink all over his stuff, ruining his books and parchments, more than a few of which contained work, and demanded an apology. Nicholas had done nothing wrong, he’d suffered a wrong. And the boy who had erred now demanded satisfaction? It was absurd. Had he been in a better mood, he’d have been at least somewhat impressed by the sheer bloody gaul. But he wasn’t in a better mood.

Whoever this little snake was, his face was twisted into a smug smirk. A smirk that Nicholas had every intention of wiping clean. Who the bloody hell did he think he was?

“Oh, you’re a charming one,” Nicholas replied, “Real charming.”

Nicholas shoved the boy in the chest again, hard.

“My ‘crap’ is covered in ink because you didn’t think to look while you were walking. So, how about we play this a little bit differently, eh? You can feel free to apologise to me, I’ll even accept it with a smile.”

Nicholas didn’t know what he was looking for with the confrontation. Maybe, some sort of outlet, some sort of way to let loose when the rest of the world seemed to be outside of his control. Physical confrontation, that he could control, that he could understand.

@Ulysses Drake

Nicholas hadn’t been expecting the blow, he really should have been, but he wasn’t. It had been an inevitable conclusion to the gradual escalation of their spat, but he was still somewhat flat-footed when the uppercut came. Instinct drove him backward, his unconscious mind taking control as the uppercut launched toward his chin. Unfortunately, instinct was slightly too slow. He managed to avoid a bulk of the hit, the soft underside of his chin being jerked out of the way of the younger boy’s fist with swift intent. But he could not avoid it in full. Nicholas had jerked his head to the side, and his jaw took a glancing blow, sending a sudden eruption of pain through the bone, followed by a nearly instant dull ache.

It hurt. He definitely hadn’t expected that. His last conflicts with junior students had involved scrawny armed duellists and other such creatures of the book. This snake, it seemed, had a bit of venom behind his fangs.

“Ouch,” Nicholas stated simply, and he meant it. His teeth and his jaw stung with the impact of the strike, but there was no knockout blow, no such luck.

For near-two years, he had been a stalwart on the Gryffindor racing team, the battering ram to Lowe’s trebuchet. A siege weapon who knew conflict both in sport, and outside of it. The Ulster lad may have been a reformed nerd, but he was no easy mark.

“Good hit,” He laughed, his own venom colouring the words as he squared himself into a fighting position, “But not good enough.”

His movements were not trained or drilled, but they were raw. A simple boxing jab to answer the uppercut. He didn’t intend to knock out another first year… but a blow to the diaphragm would do nicely.

@Ulysses Drake