A Vocation Most Noble PV Alois Proulx Closed

@Allister-Jameson MacAllister

Of course, Alois was fortunate to have a career doing what he loved. His students, however, as unaware of this fact as they may be, were even more fortunate in regards to that fact. Had the professor made his living diving into the forgotten intricacies of any other subject, his head may well have erupted, hair prematurely greyed by the tiresome feat of maintaining a constant earnest aura. As his creatures were so near and dear to his heart, they pecked at his mask until it slipped beneath his eyes, a smile occasionally reaching them only to evaporate as his gaze found his pupils. As awkward as it may be to watch your instructor’s face wilt at the mere sight of you, it’d be much worse if it was simply like that all the time. Right?

As class had been dismissed, the professor busied himself returning the evening’s creatures to their cages, in which they remained quietly, awaiting the comfort of his stables where the less dangerous were cared for. The herd of students raced for the door at once, a few lost sheep wandering about the outdoor space or lingering in deep conversation. Well, as deep as a pair of thirteen year old’s topics could be. The buzz faded as they disappeared on the other side of his fence, eventually leaving one slow-going boy treading through sludge to put his things in his bag.

Locks secured and keys swiftly stowed in his pockets, the man’s mind wandered to the following lesson, preparations calling his name from behind the heavy oaken door to his mess of an office. Physically no wandering was obvious, as Professor Proulx had merely come to stand still at the forefront, not a word or perception pressing between pearly clenched teeth. A noisy clearing of one’s throat brought a halt to his train of thought, and with a brief glance to the remaining student, he managed to put together several aspects in a matter of seconds.

Dragging to pack up his class-related possessions. An empty class space. A professor whose hands were no longer tangled in the labyrinthine security devices of his cages. A clear throat. This had been the thing. Oh, great. Conversation time.

“Ehs-Eh...Excuse meh-ME! Profess...or Proulx.” Alois’s brows furrowed together, turning to face the young Gryffindor as he approached. A smile played at his lips, flickering in and out as time advanced. He was not uneager to speak, this was an opportunity to likely delve into creatures via the student’s questions, but perhaps not ready for personal conversations with those he had comfortably seen as faces in the crowd. So soon. Ah, well. As the lion went on, his stiff tone and nerves clawing at the fleshy inside of his neck, Alois came to the conclusion he could not possibly be any more uneasy than his conversational partner here.

“I did know that, yes,” He briefly interrupted, offering the boy a nod and an imperceptible pull at his lip’s corner. He carried on, and had the professor understood him correctly, an unexpected reflection had been cast on the student at that very moment. A passion awoke. Something slid off the professor’s glazed eyes, in its place, a spark of interest and humanity began to shine. “Hmm,” The professor removed his glasses from his face, hooking them to the collar of his shirt. “Well, I’m pleased to learn of your enhanced interest in the subject. Advanced lessons are a momentous prospect, perhaps we can start small. What intrigues you in the field of magizoology?” It was easy to note that the man spoke in a high-class way; despite the weight of his words having a history of little consideration, the vocabulary bridged on pretentious with the thought to support it.