when she's with you. PV Ivy Bellamy Closed

Interacting With: @Ivy Bellamy | Dialogue Hex: #143314

3rd of March, 2022

Insatiable worry was the only reason Leonard Wendell Oaksworth hadn’t been buried six hundred and sixty-six feet under by that fateful day, the utterly exhausted boy reminded himself, and it was also the reason he was so very close to falling flat on the floor with a strict lack of exterior volition. A double-edged sword that would strike and slice to and fro, no ark would be able to save the snake from the endless streams of stress bleeding from a body far too spindly to string along such a tragic tsunami of a tale. Forget surging hormones, really, he was a natural disaster in his own right, doing everything he could to correct his wrongs through endlessly rating himself with Richter and covertly checking his Kinsey levels every now and then. Such personal matters had to be pushed aside as of then, however, as the boy had been assigned a good deal of Astronomy material to read up on and desired, nay, required the removal of any distractions from his existence. While the holidays had drawn to a conclusion a couple of months ago, let’s just say he’d been struck with the Christmas spirit of blackmail potential generosity one fateful night and decided that he’d rather keep away his vintage deck somewhere where anyone could have fun with it–provided they didn’t make enough noise to draw the attention of their librarian.

And while he’d been going down a spiel so common it was basically a pothole in the modern English road, insatiable worry was one of the many reasons why Leonard Wendell Oaksworth had tripped on a fateful something. A splinter of wood weary and worn from centuries of abuse at the hands of barbaric shoes that had soles with no soul, perhaps, or a misplaced, phantomlike feline hair that would tip the scale. A speck in his sclera or a plank put squarely in his pupil, divine intervention or the meeting of an entirely unholy matrimony between his karma and his crises; no matter the seed sowed and its farmer’s intentions, it happened, and the scraping of bony knees against a hardwood floor was far from the worst wound he’d suffer that day.

Fittingly, insatiable worry was just as equally the action and reaction shoving Leonard Wendell Oakworth in front of someone he feared was all too familiar. The subtle pallor of her skin, minuscule dust clouds found in the afternoon light creating a gradated portrait all her own. The length and texture of her hair, darkened and burnished as it may have seemingly become. The slenderness of her silhouette added to the unmistakable lion’s roar on her uniform’s insignia, and it all equated to his undeniable doom.

“Oh, I profusely apologise for this.” Normally, he would sound the part of ‘profusely apologising’, but everything was a little peculiar and foggy in his caffeine-addled cognitive functions as of then and the only part that didn’t come out a deadpan mess was the ‘oh’. Not bothering to meet the girl’s eyes, considering they were most definitely boring holes into the back of his head and getting ready to blast him with lasers, he gestured to the pack of cards that had conveniently spread across her table before scrambling back to the mountain of textbooks splayed across the carpet nearby. “Feel free to play with those as I pick all this up. Storm off to the Gryffindor common room, maybe, have a heated conversation about houses all over again…”

As his frantic corralling of scholastic materials drew to a close, he looked up to find that he’d have wished to be subject to an eternal, Sisyphian task wherein he would never have to explain what in Merlin’s beard he just talked about to a complete stranger. Well, not complete, as he could recall a shared class or corridor with her, but he knew for a fact she was neither a Nightwood nor a Slashexer. No, she was something far worse: a normal person. Something like it, at least.

“You know what? Never mind my nonsensical déjà vu, that must’ve been another housemate of yours. She and her mate made quite the impression, with their chauvinism and whatnot.” He patted a floorboard in some gesture of truce, though there was no telling as to whether or not the deities of athenaeum decor would take heed to his offerings. If she was a paranoid type, as he figured the vast majority of his batchmates either were or would swiftly come to be, she might’ve suspected that it was some ploy of perplexion hiding something far more sinister, but the plain boredom on his face could read of nothing more threatening than a stray bookmark. “Do you have the time for a match of Go Fish?”