14 Dec 2020, 13:05
Burning Bridges
[font=times new roman]Silence was a rare treat within the walls of Hogwarts whose halls rebounded laughter and hurried footsteps as disgruntled first years raced to classes accompanied by the general chatter of the newest gossip from the lips of those who couldn't get enough. For Hiram, the classroom was an oasis in a desert devoid of peace. He drank in the soothing sounds of feather pens scrawling across parchment, with the occasional plink! as the tip was dipped in the inkwell to once again mar the parchment's surface with inscriptions of everything from notes to aimless doodling. Perhaps here he could practice his spellwork without interruption (and the embarrassment he would feel if anyone saw him fumbling with the incantations). A glance around the room revealed two other students, a second year Hufflepuff and a first year Ravenclaw, who shared the classroom's peaceful atmosphere. Had he not looked up from the parchment in front of him, he might've not known of their silent presence. As much as he preferred an empty room to muse to himself as he pleased, the two students seemed to not take notice the muttering peppered with curses beneath his breath. The fragile silence of the classroom remained unbroken for what seemed like an eternity, until fate or misfortune in Hiram's case walked in under the guise of a second year Slytherin who didn't care to close the door softly behind him.
The sudden intrusion startled Hiram who subsequently dropped his pen and gripped the front of his robe as if to keep his heart from leaping out of his chest. As he leaned down to retrieve the pen, he took the opportunity to glare poison-dipped daggers at his fellow housemate who paid no attention to the first year's face that scrunched up in a scowl. This only further irritated Hiram, who wanted the boy to face up to the crime of murdering his precious concentration as if it personally involved everyone else in the room who only offered the newcomer a glance before returning their eyes to the parchment in front of them. With an indignant huff, Hiram snatched up the pen, preening the fragile feather with the edge of his robe as if it collected enough dust to impact his writing from the few seconds it spent laying on the floor. To his dismay, the boy sat himself down in the desk in front of Hiram, perched precariously so as if to purposefully block Hiram's view of the chalkboard at the front of the classroom. The audacity. Of course, the other Slytherin probably meant no harm, but to Hiram, it was a slap in the face. Still, all that Hiram could do without further disturbing the classroom was straighten his posture to an attempt to peak over the boy's head.
The first few minutes of the newcomer's arrival was fairly uneventful, though that certainly did not stop Hiram from glaring a hole in the back of the older Slytherin's head when his eyes weren't focused on his notes. Eventually holding an unacknowledged grudge became tiring and Hiram tuned out the boy in front of him, instead turning his attention to the textbook instead of the boy's brown hair. After reading a length of text from the book, Hiram leaned over to dip his quill in the inkwell and start a new page of notes.
Thump!
As soon as Hiram's quill touched the parchment, the noise from the desk in front of him made his hand jerk downwards across the page, scarring the blank surface with a long strike that bled ink. Clenching his jaw, Hiram spat a curse at the boy in front of him who probably couldn't hear the insult above the crumpling of paper as Hiram balled up the ruined page and stuffed it inside the pocket of his robe to be thrown away later. A fresh page was laid in front of Hiram, who took extra care from now on to immediately remove his quill from the page as soon as the slightly disturbance was made. For awhile, this routine worked as planned and as the page slowly filled up with intricate notetaking, remained unscathed by stray ink marks. Just as Hiram was about to cap his inkwell, another noise from the front broke the room's silence.
Tick tick tick
Came the sound of a quill being tapped in thought and as Hiram moved to finally address the boy, the sleeve of his robe caught the inkwell and promptly tipped it over. The Slytherin watched in horror as his notes drowned in a sea of ink, lost forever and unable to be rescued from its watery or rather, inky, grave. As fruitless as it was, Hiram frantically pressed the fabric of the bottom of his robe to the parchment's surface and with his scouring only tore it in half. Forced to realise that his work was unsalvageable, he slumped into his chair in defeat with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off a rising headache.
If writing wasn't safe, then he would practice his incantations which couldn't possibly be swept away as easily as his notes. Clearing his throat, he began to sound out the first syllable of the spell.
"Wing-"
Just as Hiram began his incantations, the boy had also begun the same, except with a spell he didn't recognise. Fuming from his ears, Hiram impatiently tapped his foot as he waited for the older Slytherin to finish annunciating the spell. A sharp shhhh! came from behind him as the Hufflepuff politely attempted to bring attention to Hiram's foot that nearly burned a hole in the floor with the speed at which it tapped. Hiram was in disbelief! Had the Hufflepuff not heard the other Slytherin's noises from before and just decided to single out the poor first year instead? Unbelievable. Once again, Hiram held the textbook open in his hands to remind him of the proper pronunciation before attempting the incantation again.
"Wingardium Levi-"
What was a mere coincidence that the other Slytherin started speaking at the same time seemed purposeful to Hiram. And the boy's perfect incantation that followed after only added jealousy to the brewing anger that rose to a boiling point. The textbook that had been in his hands was slammed down on the desk so that Hiram had a free hand to pointedly jab the boy's shoulder. After spending an hour with his narrowed gaze on the boy, he noticed just how orderly, almost obsessively so, the boy seemed. Perhaps ruffling his robe would be enough to garner the response Hiram was trying to provoke to exact his revenge.
"Excuse me. " Hiram began, gesturing to the textbook with his hand. "Some of us are actually trying to study peacefully. If you're going to botch your spells, please do it quieter and better yet, not overstepping my incantations." Nevermind that the older Slytherin hadn't "botched" his spell, Hiram only wanted to shed a light on the distress the boy caused him.[/font]
@Leonard Oaksworth, the first of many confrontations. Dated the 24th of September.
19 Jan 2021, 08:53
Burning Bridges
@Hiram Kantor | Hex: #0f1c0fQuick, tense steps echoed through the halls, the source being an equally tense Slytherin that had spent the past few minutes debating both the true meaning of existence and the agendum for the day. Both were pointless activities, nothing more than distractions to stop himself from spitting out expletives at any human being who dared exist within a twenty-foot radius of him. It was almost ridiculous to think a year and a bit prior, he'd been walking through the corridors without at least a tiny bit of resentment for the very existence of the castle, thinking all the plans he'd made would actually succeed and not end in some disastrous consequences for everyone who happened to have the misfortune of being part of said plans.
None of that mattered now, though, he thought. The regrettable past was the regrettable past, and there was only one thing that he'd decided on: not talking to people. The main reason for the resolution was that during his previous practices, there always seemed to be an audience for his failures, a stray peer who wished to rehearse their own magical abilities but instead got a front row seat to the theatre of disasters that was his life. Though there was no doubt he'd improved slightly in the arson department since the Ghostbusters incident, the rest of the fancy wand-work he was supposed to learn remained less than favorable. There was also his newfound passion of being irritated at the general population, so all in all, the break from conversation seemed to benefit both parties involved.
Upon entering the classroom, however, he found that even the simplest of plans would inevitably be foiled by Hogwarts. If he was bothering to be honest to himself, the reality was that it would be foiled by him and his glaring disregard for any of the others in the room who also wished to study, but it was much more simple to blame it on the castle.
His temper had not at all been subdued by the familiar scorched-at-the-edges desks, nor the even more familiar stench of that day's breakfast and lack of motivation. Every action he did was forceful, filled with contempt for...something. No matter, Leonard Oaksworth did not have enough time in the day to name the tidal wave of emotions he experienced by breathing alone. That practice was only for nice people and kindergarteners.
Much to his astonishment, whatever the something was, whether it was anger, annoyance, or any other negative adjective beginning with the vowel a, it was helping. His previously pathetic plights of attempting to make stray scraps of parchment float in the air had become successful at last. It was almost as though another voice was there, helping him. As he found shortly after, there had been another voice, though this one and their flapping robes weren't helpful at all. He turned around to find the source of the noise, a boy that seemed no older than he was. Younger, even. No matter, for even the smallest of vessels could hold the largest amounts of audacity, he soon learned.
"Excuse me." The boy said, motioning to his own textbook with a tone recognizable as disdain. "Some of us are actually trying to study peacefully. If you're going to botch your spells, please do it quieter, and better yet, not overstepping my incantations."
I swear on Merlin's beard—
"I, for one, was studying quite peacefully until you decided to bother me, which I think can be said for everyone in the room," he said, a tight smile accompanied by a tighter grip on his wand. "And I certainly don't botch my spells. Observe."
The last statement was something of a quarter-truth, a one-eighths-truth, really. In any other situation, on any other day, he would've left the room with a huff of disapproval the moment he finished speaking, but the jab about his spellcasting abilities had struck a deeper chord than the additional passive-aggressive verbal slaps accompanying it.
He stepped backwards, pushing his neat pile of paper aside just in case the particular spell he was about to attempt would end up botched. The snake focused on the tip of the magical stick and closed his eyes, visualizing the flames shutting up that little mouth.
“Incendio,” the older Slytherin said quietly, so as not to disturb the other boy too much. After all, the jet of fire shot straight towards the dark curls atop his head would probably be bothersome (and entertaining) enough to last a decade or four.
much to the detriment of leonard oaksworth’s mental health...