Closed Detention Dealing with Dung PV Piérre Marchonné, Sarai Toussaint Finished

House Colours: Gryffindor

Fear was a very interesting thing. It had singlehandedly been responsible for the proper evolution of man for thousands of years, had enabled the rise and fall of tyrants, emperors, and kings, and had caused things both beautiful and terrible to come into existence whether it be a binding of nations into a pact or a cruel dictatorship in many instances of world history. The wizarding world too was not immune to its influences, as its many wars and conflicts that had shaped the way its world interacted with that of the muggle world very much proved. Even today there was a civil war knocking on the door, that petty and abusive rivalry between Purebloods and between Purebloods and those who had obvious muggle or 'tainted' blood in their immediate lineages. It put many into curious situations even before they were born, indeed as soon as they were born: a social segregation that changed the course of their lives, especially if they had been blessed (or cursed, as the case may be) with the ability to harness magic...

Such as Piérre and his brother. Two children who did not know their pedigree beyond that of musing and curious investigation. Children who perhaps would have been better off or happier without the knowledge that they belonged to this unusual and often cruel world that seemed hell-bent on breaking them down or trying to prove something to them, despite the fact that they very well could have been one of their 'royals', one of the few who were "Pure" or one of the few who were "Unblemished" with muggle blood. As an Unknown, who could really know for a fact, after all? Who was anyone to judge who they were, who Piérre was? Who was he to care or to judge, after all? What was the point? Why did such fear exist?

Until he did remember that such fear did serve a purpose no matter how ridiculous it seemed. Fear not only existed politically but also in the nature of man's psyche itself. The fear to stay alive, the fear to lose one's life, or the fear that in losing one's life they abandon those that they had an obligation to. The will to survive, that cold chill that sank into the stomach and turned and turned, that made the air like ice and that caused the mind to buzz with incoherent thought that spiraled no further than the need to keep breathing, to keep one's heart beating. The cold sweat that turned clammy as legs pushed harder, as lungs burned and as tears began to press in at the corner of one's eyes as one realizes that perhaps, just perhaps, this would be the moment they would die. This is the moment that they would cease their tenure of the mortal world, and that they would fail in their desire and their obligations to the rest of the world. They had run out of time. They were now going to meet their Maker, or to descend into the blackness and nihilism that encroached like a shadowy vulture in the corner of their minds forever.

Fear was what laid mostly masked behind that carefree smile and rambunctious nature, that uncertain and tremulous burden of knowing that a young life could be snuffed in an instant if someone so wished it. Piérre Luigi Marchonné was a man made of glass, someone who could be shattered and made to feel pain and agony at a moment's notice if some higher power deemed it time for him to be tormented and then promptly executed if deemed fit. He was not terribly unakin to a man waiting for his time at the gallows, waiting for his coarse necktie and the moment that lever was pulled to allow gravity to do the bloody work that human hands were so ashamed to do for themselves. Misfortune had always seemed to follow him up to this point, and Piérre was doubtful that it would ever fully leave him until the moment his pitiful life was smudged out of existence, a stain that would be purged from the annals of history and an blotch that would be ripped out of every history book if needed.

The boy was, for all intents and purposes, an unwanted and an uncontrollable variable. What that meant to a person was dependent on what they defined as a madman or a revolutionary, but to be sure the boy was not of a sound mind when compared to others like his classmates or even to many faculty members that he had had the misfortune to run across up to this point.

Unwanted and uncontrollable variables were dangerous. They always had been to a well-ordered and well-adjusted society. And yet Piérre couldn't seem to bring himself to turning a blind eye to any of it, couldn't seem to just... sit still and let things flow around him like they 'should'. Something kept driving him forward, kept pushing him the way that it did for a reason that not even he was entirely sure of... and yet, its siren's call was so calming, so perfect, and so delightful, that he did feel he should resist. Who else would call out the world with pranks and jests, to enlighten that which was hidden and corrupt, and to bring to light the things that would have rather remained in their slime and darkness? What else could be done to burn them away, to make them face the music as the Jester was so apt to do for himself? After all... he faced his own music now, at this detention with but one of the sources of great darkness that he had met when he had been but a child.

And he was properly frightened, no matter how well the mask gleamed with white light and mirrors that redirected and distorted the image in smoke and mist. He was frightened for what was going to come at this detention that he was being forced to attend against his will despite all his complaints and very verbosely expressed fears. The only consolation was that he would not be alone. He would not be alone with It. Of course... there was always the risk that the attending adult was in league with It, but it was something that Piérre would simply have to risk. It was something he would just have to try to elude and make himself even more clever in order to avoid. And cleverness for him at least was in spades.

Trotting at his heels was silver bengal Figaro, leashless and only wearing a collar with a small golden capsule on it containing a simple but effective message. It was a message that Piérre had prepared well in advance for this day, just in case things did suddenly go sideways. With a dying command if need be, Figaro would run away and find someone, anyone, to inform the rest of the school of danger... hopefully... A small piece of single parchment with tiny handwriting, so he could fit as many of his thoughts on it as humanly possible. The ink in some places was so close it seemed to bleed into itself.

And before he knew it, he was in the belly of the beast and beheld a twisted setup befitting someone of a twisted mind. A tea party. Disgusting. Still, when he beheld the two adults, his hands were out by his sides, visible, as well as the wand sheathe he was wearing on his hip outside of his robes and a knife sheathe that held a sharpened Locksmith's knife. He was armed. He wanted It to know he was armed, and that he was not afraid to make good on the promises he had laden on It time and time again in the past two encounters spaced a mere month apart. He had proved not once but twice already that he was... quite a good shot.

And Protego was notorious for not being able to protect one against well-driven knives in their flights.

He didn't, in fact, try to complain. His lips were sealed and his eyes spoke all the words for him in green venom. He listened patiently, fingers slightly curled but mostly idle, balanced on the balls of his feet ever so slightly in the posture of a boy ready to run swifter than a gazelle. His head tipped ever so slightly to the left like marionette whose strings were loosened without a hand to tighten them, a cocking of his neck that almost looked too flexible. He was listening, listening in an attempt to weed through the words that were important and trying to keep his mind ready for anything worth hearing.

Despite himself, a tiny smirk graced his features as his punishment was meted out to him. Of course. How silly of him to think that there would be anything difficult that he would have to do? "I never believed you to be shit, my dear impostor." He quipped icily, grinning like the fool he was, that was his job to be. "But if you wish for me to assign to you the adjectives that I keep locked away in the indecent part of my mind that would be... quite improper to share in front of ladies such as yourselves--if one of you is a lady at all, of course--by all means inform me and I shall list them off in whatever way you please: alphabetically or by increasing or decreasing intensity."

Before waiting for a response, he simply shrugged and looked down to his cat before gesticulating towards the Nurse. "Figaro. Minaccia entit. Threat entity." After a pause, during which the silver bengal that was Figaro's ears twitched and his slightly fluffy black-tipped tail flicked impatiently--did those ears flatten for a second?--Piérre issued another command. "Colpire Nutrice Spingerti. Strike [if] Nurse Provokes." No mistaking it, the cat sat down lightly on haunches, ears swiveling ever so slightly, drawing no closer but going no farther. Those green eyes were fixed on the Nurse in particular, a cat's glare never departing from the one to which he had been assigned. No matter what happened, the loyal feline sat. And, in fact, if a shift from the Nurse happened to quickly, or a movement too abrupt occurred, there was a low and foreboding tongue of a growl that would quickly pick up through the air, and the fluffy black tail would flick faster as ears pressed more tightly to the skull. The boy's cat was an intelligent one, perhaps having somewhere in its lineage some long gone Kneazle ancestor to have learned and executed such commands so easily and willingly... and Piérre had taught the feline [Beast Master] extremely well himself. Green eyes would narrow, but the cat would not advance or act, so long as the Nurse did not try to leave the place It had chosen to confine itself to.

So. Time to see what this was all about now, wasn't it? Twelve areas, all of them needing to be sprinkled with manure. No tools, no magic, only hands. Easy. He'd done similar things before for fun, particularly in his youth. And, all things considered, had he ever really grown up since then? "I suppose I'll go get shitfaced. You won't mind if I step out." Wiggling his fingers at the two adults in farewell with his feline to keep a tentative eye out, Piérre rolled his eyes after he turned and walked away, sniggering a bit under his breath. "Ah shit, here we go again."

Giggling a bit more to himself, and pulling the winter cloak a bit tighter about him, he hummed lightly as he approached the the greenhouse in question and then rolled his neck lightly with a deep breath and subsequent sigh.

There's a certain kind of smell that accompanies manure, and oddly enough different manures from different animals does have different scents. Cows and chickens and horse smell different than sheep, goat, or pig. Pig, on average, tended to be the worst. Throwing open the doors and ready for whatever game, the sweet sickly smell of odorous offal met the boy's relatively sensitive nose. Sensitivity in smell was a curious thing in and of itself as well, for depending on 'how it was wired' the scent could either be unbearable or strangely enticing. Well, it didn't smell 'good' per say--what person would willing confess that they enjoyed such a scent--but even in the sun-baked nature of it, the heat and the sludge, and the flies all buzzing about the multi-day old substances... well... it did have an appeal that put it above some other distasteful smells that Piérre couldn't really put a name to.

The bigger issue, as the miasma roiled around him and caused a brief cough here or there simply because of the stuffiness and the sheer oppressiveness of the collection, was the fact that there was just so much of it. No mask, no problem. No tools, no issue. He'd worked with raw dung before, dragon dung at that, with his bare hands. He honestly didn't care what animal this excrement came from. He simply had to just buckle down and finish what he had been summoned for before being allowed to finally leave and stay away permanently from the Nurse and further convictions that It was nothing but trouble. "Well. Honestly I'm just disappointed at this point." He murmured as he took off his cloak. "What, did they think I was squeamish? Must not have known I've been in way deeper shit as a child." He bit his tongue and raised his eyes to the skies as he choked back another wild gust of laughter. Ah puns, delightful jests.

Say, what if he just made this as delightful as humanly possible for everyone involved. If they were so busy with their tea party... why not make himself busy with cracking fun and doing what he did best: being an issue?

To start with, as he stepped through thick mounds in his school uniform with his shoes (no, he did not mind, and yes he liked the squishing sounds), he decided the best way to start was to get as much of this shit onto his winter cloak as possible, and then take it outside to air out. It would diminish the smell... or maybe make it worse for those nearby... and would also allow him to create a center of operations for filling each borough to the brim with the concoction of fecal matter. He had plans for all of this, after all. All of it had a purpose, and he was going to delight in using it. It was no use being squeamish about it, he went all in with hands coated almost immediately up to the elbow. Wiping his face on his shoulder only worked so well for a while whenever he got a bit sweaty (good thing he was actually using his warm winter cloak for something useful while he broiled despite the frigid weather), but eventually--just as he had promised--he did get shitfaced. With continued hums and disjointed melodies that he had heard and had just composed on the spot, the boy dumped armful after armful of the stuff onto his cloak until it got too heavy for him to drag. When that came about, he drug it outside and dumped it off so that he could go in and get more.

He didn't forget to sneakily leave a big ol dookie pile right next to the doorway but out of sight. A present for those hosting his detention. He leaned in to say hello and wiggle his fingers at the adults again, covered in shit and his white smile being the only thing that wasn't brown before ducking back out again as a cover for his more nefarious actions aforementioned.

The piles were split out into twelve, and this was all done in about an hour to maybe an hour and fifteen minutes. Easy. Now to take each in the cloak sled and fill each area up. As he passed by, the kid always seemed to have some quip to say, some kind of jab or earflick that came to his mind and never seemed to be snared by his faculties before they left his lips. "Tell me, is this the kind of thing you find attractive? Young men getting all hot and bothered while they lift and move things and do work for their ladies?" A raucous laughter as the sled went by, and then returned again for more. "You should have told me you wanted me to model! I can take off more than my cloak!" Another rolling peal of thunderous giggling.

"I'm Italian, is that to your tastes as well?"

"Maybe just a tease?"

"You know, in Italy blondes are a rarity, you should come and visit sometime!"

"I sure hope it doesn't rain, because two things melt in rain: sugar and shit! Which one am I?"

"If my brother was here, I think a fog would form!"

"I'm honestly shocked by how uncreative detentions have gotten recently...."

"Like, is manual labor accompanied by light humiliation just the equation nowadays?"

"It's good to get your hands dirty without magic. Reminds you that you can do things without a crutch!"

"Honestly I could think of something way more interesting. You wanna hear some ideas?"

"I charge five sickles a thought. Yes, they're really that golden. Honestly it's a steal, I should be demanding a galleon every five words."

All of these were accompanied by laughter and further jibes of these nature, and it would continue to interrupt any attempted conversation or gossip that was occurring. Ah the joys of the Jester, the joys of being so far gone not to care, to have so little regard for these appointed authorities that it was only because of pure humor and wit that the head of his was not carried off by the snicker-snack of an executioner's axe. For what made the world go round if not the ability to laugh, the ability to self-deprecate, and to poke fun at the evils so as to make their presences more visible to all who listened. Truly the greatest fools were those who didn't get the joke. Those who were oblivious to the punchline, those who simply did not have the clever mind to even so much as consider what those words meant; what those words did to these arbitrary hierarchies of power and political formalities. Here he was, the Fool! Here he was, a reveler in his own chaos; in his own power that only increased as the ire and outrage did. The louder they screamed and cussed and cajoled... how much more powerful the laughter that came from him and those who understood became.

In this way, in this way he had won. In this way he could and would never be broken. Piérre Marchonné, the boy who could not be shamed. The boy who never bowed and who never shied away, for what had he but Fool's bravery in the end? The greatest bravery and the most foolish of all!

And, wouldn't one believe it... but around two and a half or three hours later... the chore was done, and Piérre was covered in it. Oh how disgusting and awkward he looked, but oh how radiant his smile was! He was... so happy. A genuine smile that could have transformed into a laugh that rattled the heavens and echoed melodiously into the hills!

Presenting himself at the door for the two adults, the Britalian bowed and scraped before twirling his wand and casting the first of the spells he would need to recover from all of this. A flourish of the dung-covered cloak that sent little clumps everywhere, a point and flick. "Lambent lutum!" And he began to vacuum his cloak. "Well I hope it's to your pleasure. I can't wait to see the plants that I grew with the help of my labor. I'm sure you'll give me a cut of the crop, right?" He glanced up briefly to make eye contact with the new Herbology professor. "Or don't. I'll just steal what I need anyways if not. Potion ingredients are hard to come by nowadays." He bluntly grumbled the last bit, recalling some of his less fruitful ventures into the realm of pilfering and the consequences of such acts. "Thank you for my workout. I really felt the burn today. It was nice, gonna pack on some nice muscles. Hey tell you what. Just send me over here when I get detention in the future, oh but do please be more creative in the punishment. I almost ran out of jokes to tell. Scourgify!"

Humming and more humming as he continued to clean himself. His face would have to be washed properly, but at least his clothes and feet felt relatively clean. "Hmm hmmm... Welp. Toodles! Figaro, Stola! Stole"

With a final warning growl from the feline, Figaro stood up, shook, and then ran to Piérre and scampered up his newly cleaned clothes to take his traditional place on his shoulders.

Hands in pockets, Piérre whistled as he walked away, breaking into a run after he crested a hill... just in case the adults found the dookie surprise he had left for them just outside their little tea party. Love from the Jester himself, it would seem. Piérre had places to be. He couldn't stay in one place for long. His attentions were required elsewhere, and he had deals that needed closure with illicitly gained herbology plants...

4,000 Words

Statistics: Stamina 7 | Strength 5 | Evasion 18 | Wisdom 12 | Accuracy 16 | ArcPower 5

Abilities:
Keen Eye | Calming Presence | Beast Master [Cat] | Cat's Grace | Animagus [Hummingbird]

Items:
Firebreathing Potion | Garroting Gas Potion | Invisibility Cloak | Winter Cloak | Soda | Figaro [Cat]
[Sharpened] Locksmith's Knife | [Red] Deck of 52 Playing Cards

S A R A IxXxT O U S S A I N T
♦ Dealing with Dung, 3rd of February 2024 at Herbology Greenhouses, Hogwarts ♦
Dialogue #796f4e

It had been a rather exhausting day for the woman, and although there weren't lessons to hold, that did not imply there was no work to be done. A much needed break was a welcomed respite. Prior to the Haitian woman exiting the castle, Sarai ensured all the greenhouses remained locked guaranteeing no overly curious students could gain access; now she found herself crouching in the dirt outside, alternating between using a rooping iron against the stob and collecting the protruding worms. With care and gentleness, her black-painted and dirt-coated nails carefully scooped wriggling earthworms and tenderly transferred them into a moist jar of dirt for later use.

Ominous clouds swept in from the west, casting a somber gloom over the rolling foothills of Hogwarts like a bad omen. Midst her worm charming and observing students in the distance, her gunmetal eyes would return to a squint as an occasional sun peeked its face from the somber clouds, the sudden intensity of its shine akin to a Lumos Solem. It was then that Sarai recalled her arrangements with the school nurse Dusana, and a troubled student known as Pierre; a detention that Sarai and Dusana had been meticulously preparing for almost the past week -- a hopeful resolution to the crimes this Pierre committed against the faculty. The Professor swiftly gathered her tools and made haste to the greenhouses, hoping that neither Dusana nor Pierre hadn't been kept waiting for too long.

"Ou pa t anpil èd You weren't much help," Sarai murmured under her breath towards Badriyah, feeling the familiar weight of her serpent coiled upon her neck as the woman proceeded towards the greenhouses. As the woman entered the space with hushed steps of her boots, Sarai descended the stairs, her off-white gown billowing behind her. She remained hushed to listen, and seemingly arrived just in time to witness Dusana seated with tea and cookies and Pierre, wearing a smirk and had a faraway gaze in his beady emerald eyes, who retorted back to the Nurse in eerie riddles.

There lay an air of both dread and intrigue engulfing the scene before her as Sarai placed her worm-filled jug and equipment on a table and rinsed her hands off in a nearby fountain. She dared not remove her gunmetal gaze from the enigma of a boy, who would not strike fear but rather drew her in like moth to flame. Sarai hung onto his words like a child on the edge of their seat, completely captivated by the riddles and seemingly drawn to further understand the boy's thoughts; what sort of head trauma compelled the boy to live in his twisted fantasy? Was it an act to freely enact such heinous violence against his staff? Did the boy truly possess a mind of maniacal brilliance, or was Pierre truly disturbed?

She watched him as Pierre issued commands to his feline companion in what Sarai believed to be Italian, a small passive smile gracing her lips as settled down next to Dusana. "Sorry to keep you waiting," Sarai replied in Parseltongue to the woman, carefully avoiding using a language the brilliant boy could possibly understand, though wouldn't be too surprised if Pierre somehow comprehended their language too. "No trouble, I hope,"

A few hours had passed as the women continued their chatter between tea and cookies, though occasional interruptions emanating from within the greenhouse momentarily capturing her focus. Sarai dared not to look inside or approach yet until the job was complete, avoiding the chance of startling the feline or its master though snickered occasionally at his shoutings. Having children of her own, the woman was not unaccustomed to dry rhetorics and impertinence of immaturity. And if Pierre was akin to her boys, the shamanic witch would also assume he found some sort of consolation in venting, and Sarai would let him claim little victory if it meant she was relieved of manual labor.

Raising the dainty tea cup to her lips, her words to Dusana were interrupted as dung-coated Pierre exited the greenhouse. She was not caught off guard by the brilliant smile he wore, right before he flourished his cloak sending specks of dung in its wake. Her blue eyes narrowed intently at the chunk of brown that now graced the rim of the white porcelain cup, a smirk illuminating her lips as she returned the cup to the table. Her cocky countenance never faded, and Sarai would heed his words before acknowledging them with a nod to silently accept his challenge.

Her smirk dimmed as Pierre exited, swiftly rising to her feet to evaluate the quality of the task he supposedly accomplished. A once over of the space would confirm a job completed, nothing destroyed or seemingly missing although she intentionally emptied the room to prevent further pilfering from being added to his record.

Turning to Dusana from her seat at the table, Sarai invited her to look. "Sa ka pase It'll have to do," she spoke to herself, taking a step further into the room. Sarai went around and carefully rearranged the raised beds' positioning that were now completed with manure, pushing them back into place until a certain stench hit her nose. And no, it was not animal dung...well, actually, maybe it was. She glanced at the corner where the smell emanated, a heavy sigh escaping past her lips. "Dusana," she stated in a venomous tone, "I think he.. shit on de floor,"

Tags: @Dusana Sabo, @Piérre Marchonné, @Galahad Browne