The Fate of the Jorts OPEN

time. lunchtime
place. great hall
with. @remy break, @livia machavariani

Dahlia was, as she considered it, on the slippery slope towards boredom. Such were the perils of lunchtime. The seating system— long tables covering a majority of the narrow hall— was ineffective for finding one's desired company to sit with. There were far too many Gryffindors for the old thing and not many of them were willing to make space. (Dahlia, if she were in such a situation, would not agree to move for a stranger. Alas, she still found this reprehensible.)

It did not help that Dahlia had been late. Her left uniform shoe had hidden itself behind the foot of her bed in an act of great trickery. It knew she did not wish to wear it. The young witch had, in private, launched the offending footwear across her dormitory once out of frustration at the concept of a uniform. She did not understand why she must match with every other student at the school in order to eat. It stifled the development of identity and creative expression in the youth. Furthermore, the use of robes slowed movement which made them a vector of tardiness. Et cetera.

Her current predicament exemplified the burden. Here Dahlia was, an upstanding student, constrained by the length of her uniform and, hence, cruelly prevented from sitting by her friends. No. She was stuck at the end next to older years who quite clearly did not wish to speak to her or breathe the same air. Fascinating. It was her favorite pastime to dine in silence.

The witch twirled her fork idly between her pointer finger and thumb. Her gaze fixed on a location beyond what she could empirically perceive. Her plate remained empty aside from a portion of fruit and a small sliver of meat. Eating did not particularly appeal to her at the moment, however, she knew she would become hungry later at some inopportune hour of class. Therefore, she mandated, food consumption was a requirement. Dahlia skewered a grape, then two, slowly bringing both to her lips in one motion. The combination of plant and animal matter made for a balanced, omnivorous diet, did it not? Her father would be proud.

Dahlia noticed the presence of a head mid-chew. It was thankfully followed by a neck, a torso, and all appropriate limbs. The student, a Slytherin as could be inferred from their crest, had landed belly-up on the Gryffindor table. Their hair draped over the salad bowl, head on the wood of the table, one arm in the mashed potatoes, the remainder of their body cast over the bench towards the floor.

"Hey." Dahlia finished chewing before greeting the new arrival with a raised eyebrow. "Your hair is, like, kind of in the vegetables." No response came. Dahlia made no move to be useful. The older students could deal with any medical implications. Out of all the 'fixing' spells Dahlia only practiced Reparo. She knew better than to use it on a living being.

Rather, Dahlia's attention swiveled towards the direction from which the student came. Her legs, without the consent of her brain, brought her to stand. (She was without entertainment. An inquisition would induce entertainment. She was, hence, acting in accordance with logical reasoning and entirely justified.)

The Slytherin table, according to the uniform of the victim, was Dahlia's first location of suspicious intent. She did not hold any prejudice against the lot, yet, the sight of a boy actively in possession of another student (projectile?) confirmed her hypothesis. Dahlia crossed the room in long strides— this was, arguably, the only interesting event of the past week— but stopped before entering Launcher-Man's grabbing distance. The half-Veela maintained that she was superior in all ways but, in practicality, this jort-clad boy could most certainly outmaneuver her physically.

Existence in close range distracted her from the task at hand. Her eyes, to their dismay, fell upon the fashion crimes this young man had committed. The shirt, if one could call it that anymore, was mutilated, as were the pants. She assumed both feats were completed by the hands of the boy in front of her. No tailor nor parent was so aesthetically incompetent as to permit such alterations. She ought to inform him for his own sake.

"Hey." Her flat tone mirrored the prior greeting. Inspiration struck after she had opened her mouth. She hadn't caught the entirety of what he said from a distance but the concept was there. "You know, jorts are totally a trend with nerds these days," The Gryffindor spoke flippantly, casting a performative glance around the room. She lowered her voice. "I don't know if anyone told you but I thought I should let you know." The lie was blatant but glorious in a manner that delighted Dahlia— a perfect hit.

He dropped the Slytherin kid he was holding, the boy hitting the floor like a sack of wet mushy laundry. Remy did not understand half of the words that were being thrown at him, nay, bombarding him. Remy didn't really understand the words that were being tossed at him. What exactly were jorts? What was this concept of vegetables? (If he wanted to consume poison, he'd drink Livia's fizzy water!)

He stomped forward with his chest puffed aggressively, his shoulders flexing as if he were trying to, pretty much, make his collarbones fight each other. Maybe jorts were something that he were wearing. And he looked damn good in it. Au contrare to what the others thought, they all had rat poop for brains, they couldn't see true beauty.

"Nerds? Jorts? THESE?" He didn't gesture anywhere, still wasn't sure exactly which article of clothing it was, or maybe that girl was making it up. He looked down at his masterpiece of handmade slaughtered clothes. The jagged denim, the uneven protrusion of jags of the sleeveless shirt. His face contorted. "No. REMY IS FASHION KING!" He grabbed the slytherin he dropped and tossed him into another table with more aggression than he had the previous victim.

He was getting annoyed of those two. He knew one of them stayed in his house, he'd probably shave her eyebrows off at night and then snap her wand. He had the power to do that, at least. The other, well. He would grab Livia's fizzy drink from her hands with a roar and then yeet it towards her face, hoping the glass would shatter and make an impact.

If this other girl tried something, he was definitely grabbing her wand and snapping it.

@livia machavariani @dahlia lee

time. lunchtime
place. great hall
with. @remy break, @livia machavariani

Dahlia's eyes widened a fraction of an inch as the boy stepped forward. Her words had escaped her mouth, like the little delinquents they were, without much thought to the matter of repercussions. Individuals, barring herself, were usually predictable in nature. She had expected some form of a response in retrospect.

From a student-launching golem of a boy said response would, logically, be physical. He made up in stature for what he lacked in mental capacity. The fight of David and Goliath had been settled long ago. Hence, in a future-minded application of the aforementioned proof, the fight between Dahlia and the Slytherin catapult had been settled as well. Those of an adept mind held many superior traits to those built of muscle, ignorance, and something horrific found in a lab. (There was a stench. However, Dahlia lacked the incriminating evidence that it belonged to Remy. It could very well originate from the food left on the tables.)

Case in point, Dahlia did not waver as the boy stepped forward. It took every last ounce of her barely-extant willpower to keep her lips pressed together in a firm line. This failed as soon as he spoke. Her facial muscles each gave out individually starting with her eyebrows arching upwards. The corner of her mouth quivered as she struggled to hold a composed and benevolent expression. She was neither composed nor necessarily benevolent so the effort was worthless. A breath of air escaped her lips giving way to a full-body laugh, bending over at the hips.

Did he actually produce those words in a serious manner? It took a second for Dahlia to wrap her head around. She had never in spoken English heard someone above the age of three refer to themself in the third person in such a manner before. Even then, it was mostly the unbearable parents of said toddlers who spoke like that in reference to their spawn. It was likely an attempt to disguise the ooze juice radiating from said creatures. Dahlia gave the Slytherin an analytical once-over. The fellow would have certainly radiated ooze juice as a child. Hence, it was likely that his, Remy's, parents had spoken of him in this way. Hence, he had likely adopted their sentence structure— a shame, really, and a failure of education.

It took Dahlia a few seconds to remember the bit she had begun less than a minute ago but, in that second, Remy had begun to target someone else. A shame— Fashion King Remy was prime ragebait material. Even a glass, apparently, was capable of agitating the troll-shaped spawnling. It was a normal glass too in all respects, apparently belonging to a lanky Slytherin if proximity counted as reasonable argument. Dahlia tilted her head. The expression on the girl's face seemed to convey that she knew something more than the Gryffindor about her current predicament— which one she was not sure. Dahlia, as it seemed, was perpetually in possession of five.

A giggle escaped her lips at the absurdity. It was rude, yes, but an inevitability. Of course. Go ahead then. Attack a technical bystander because another, unrelated individual offered you kind and concise feedback regarding one's fashion crimes. (Of which there were multiple. Dahlia was being kind in not including the ripped shirt. It was an act of charity.) Regardless, Dahlia's faith in Remy was actively dropping with prolonged contact. She ought to worry for the health of her braincells.

"Merlin's fucking beard!" The exclamation fell in the general direction of the glass incident. Dahlia was twelve. She was, by rule of her internal jurisdiction, allowed to swear intermittently as long as adults were not immediately present. (This was because, for some odd reason they did not understand that words were, simply, words.) Some old hag thousands of years ago had designated certain words as 'curses.' This made no sense. They had no magical properties as defined in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Hence, naturally, they were fine.

She turned back to the "Remy" fellow with a notable side-eye. "Hot tip. Glass breaks sometimes. Maybe don't throw it in random students' faces?" She tapped the tip of her pointer finger to her lip in mock thought. Nothing in her tone suggested grave upset. Rather, she existed in her normal register at the intersection of amusement and boredom.

"Are you okay?" She addressed the girl, the emotion in her voice easily draining into monotony. Dahlia was not a monster despite her lack of offense with the whole students-as-projectiles concept. It was a spectacle: troll-shaped boys fighting other troll-shaped boys. Whoever won became the king of men for a day or something to that effect. She was not an expert of boy behavior, Merlin be praised. Such expertise would imply long-term observation which would imply major headache (if Dahlia's observations were maintained to be correct.)

The onlooker, as Dahlia, did not appear troll-shaped. She was more so inquisitive-cat-shaped if the Gryffindor had to form a shape-based conclusion. It was exceedingly likely she did not wish to take place in such activities. Now, with the fate of the glass, she had been conscripted.

Dahlia allowed a few seconds for observation before returning to her previous point. She might be forgetful but she knew what a distraction looked like. That glass was clearly, if the boy had any braincells, a targeted attempt to throw her argument off-course. She would not be derailed by tomfoolery. The Gryffindor was well acquainted with Tom and his foolery. She herself was one of his well-known acolytes.

She hummed. There were many good responses but only one could trump all others. That was usually the first response she came up with in Dahlia's case. "Remy is fashion king," she emphasized the name, taking advantage of his poor diction. She did understand him but it was easy enough to pretend not to. "He'd probably tell you not to wear jorts though. 'Cause jorts are nerdy." A singular nod affirmed her own point. Dahlia paused briefly for an attempted breath. She ought not to laugh in the kid's face again. That was a surefire path towards revealing her intentions. "What's your name? Are you Remy's struggling apprentice?" The Gryffindor made her falsified confusion abundantly clear. She did not trust the boy to catch the slightest nuance.

Remy heard the two and froze up. Of course, not because he was scared or felt bad, nor because he understood half of what the two disgusting rat-crossed vermins were saying. No, instead he froze because Dahlia laughed.

At him!

At the king Remy!

His eye twitched so hard that if one were looking, they might think that his eye might detach and roll across the table. He grabbed Dahlia's shoulder roughly, his arms tensing with pure, unfiltered rage. "YOU NO LAUGH REMY! REMY NO JOKE!" Remy had half a mind to give her a black eye right here and right now, but he couldn't, not shortly after injuring Livia, but he could probably send her to the hospital if he did so much as poke her.

He ignored the fact that she kept yapping, as a baby didn't talk that much and he would rather sit in a room and listen to it cry than listen to Dahlia or Livia.

He turned to Livia, with her backing away as if he were like a wild animal. To be fair, he kind of was acting like one. He got closer, putting his face in hers as his breath grew increasingly rancid with every word uttered. "You think you smart?" He spat on the floor, nearly missing Livia. "You boring. You thank me now! YOU THANK REMY!" He puffed out his chest with his shoulders rising ala a bull ready to charge.

"Remy talk good." He said, addressing the two. "Remy no baby."

He had no idea what an apprentice was, so he chose to ignore that insult that would've otherwise blindsided him. He grabbed a plate off of the table and raised it like he was getting ready to swing it as if it were a bat.

What the hell were wrong with these idiots?

@Dahlia Lee @Livia Machavariani

time. lunchtime
place. great hall
with. @remy break, @livia machavariani

Dahlia did laugh. Could anyone blame her? It was too much for one to handle while remaining in the spirit of seriousness. Her authentic reaction was to laugh in the face of the obvious threat. The witch's body vibrated notably despite Remy's hand on her shoulder, laughter escaping the guard made by teeth biting lip.

She moved a hand to brush hair out of her face, massaging the corners of her eyes. Her expression twisted in the moment her features were covered. One might mistake this for strategy. Dahlia did not possess the patience nor the self control to properly execute a plan, plot, or scheme amidst a confrontation. She had set herself in motion, hence, the course of such motion would be completed in full regardless of consequence.

Rather, the Gryffindor girl operated on instinct. Her head tilted to the side, innocent expression juxtaposing the words already escaping her lips, "Remy is funny though. It's only fair to laugh, yeah?" The question, although phrased as such, required no answer. She gave the boy a simple shrug. "Use your brain." Dahlia regretted the stock phrase immediately, not because it was mean but because she was not sure whether the boy had a brain to use.

The shrug brought Dahlia's attention to the fact that the oaf's hand was on her shoulder. She recoiled at once. Boys in general were disgusting gremlins but this specimen, if Dahlia's calculations were correct, was about ten times as gross as the national average. Remy probably picked up flobberworms and flung them at his mates. That, or, he skulked around in the abandoned toilets. He seemed the type to bathe exactly once a month and never wash his hands.

Remy's gross boy-troll-ogre germs were touching Dahlia's pristine, rose-scented sleeve. Entirely unacceptable! She glanced down at the wrist with contempt. It was imperative that she remove it. However, the concept of removal required further contact with the boy which Dahlia did not desire. She used her pointer finger and thumb in a futile attempt to remove the appendage from her shoulder with grace and dignity. It was as if a single ant were attempting to carry a boulder.

Dahlia then turned to her words. "Can you, like, unhand my person please?" Please? Was she a 5-year-old? It was a polite question although the tone lacked amicability. The attempt would almost certainly be futile but a worthy attempt nonetheless in her preferred domain.

Her gaze migrated to Livia who had mistaken Dahlia's casual insult as a genuine point of advice. Adorable. Dahlia did not care for Remy's wellbeing sufficiently to offer the boy advice. She'd sooner misinform him and serve as the agent behind his eventual demise. (The prospect rapidly grew in appeal as the conversation continued.)

Dahlia had reached her curiosity's limit of mixing with the greater population at this point. It had been funny, yes. She was still in good humor. Now, however, she was being used as a human crutch by an ogre-boy. Furthermore, despite the demonstrated oblivion to undertones, the observing witch did not strike Dahlia as slow or unintelligent. She was, as Dahlia had previously suspected, an unexpected bystander— one who had a similar experience of misfortune with dining hall seating. (Dahlia, at least, had provoked the boy on purpose.) Logically, she deserved a response on Dahlia's part. "At least she can express herself. Without throwing students or, like spitting on anyone." Could Dahlia shut up at this point? Yes. However, she chose not to. Her gaze followed the path of the spit to where it had landed thankfully not on Livia. "Also, do you not know that is unsanitary? Ew." Dahlia doubted that public shaming would work on ogre-boy but, alas. She would not physically fight him.