Before The Ball Drops PV FINNEGAN CONNER DNI Closed

🅵 I N N E G A Nxx🅲 O N N O R
xxxGRYFFINDOR SECOND YEAR POTIONS CLASSROOM

Before the ball drops TBD of X 2024

xx

Peering over the edge of the cauldron he was carrying, Finnegan squinted at the boy tucked away in the dark recesses of the potions class. That was Draven Mirador, wasn't it? Finger-lickin' rumours aplenty regarding this particular specimen, some of them creepy, none of them good. A whisper had been making the rounds that he was a vampire, that he never slept, that he went on the prowl at night to hunt in the Forbidden Forest. Someone else had insisted that Draven was in fact a werewolf as evidenced by his shabby, tattered clothes. One thing was certain, something was off about the Slytherin. There had to be a reason why he was still in 2nd year after all, right? The moment Draven's thousand-yard stare crossed his gaze, Finnegan pretended to be looking the other way. He definitely hadn't been shooting glances at Draven since the start of class to guage the boy. No sir, definitely not sir, it couldn't possibly be so. When Sauron's eye had passed and the coast was clear again, Finnegan wagered another look. The boy's hair looked uneven, sticking out at odd angles, like someone had been trying a hedge trimmer on it. There was only reason Finnegan could think of why Professor Regan had assigned him to cooperate with Mirador on a Mind Altering Potion: she was cutting her losses and putting the years' failures in the furthest corner of the room where they could hardly be seen, heard, or cause harm to others. That had to be it, hadn't it? Or maybe he was today's blood sacrifice to keep the vampire appeased. Sighing, he made his way over to the boy whose face was half-hidden in shadows. It wasn't often that he encountered someone who looked dressed worse. There wasn't anything dirty about the boy's Slytherin uniform really, but it seemed rather a size too small for him. Careful not to trip over his own feet, Finnegan closed the distance to their shared desk and began unloading the materials they'd need for today's lesson. "Hey," he greeted, not wanting to seem rude. No need to say his name, Draven surely already knew it, there weren't many classes where his name hadn't been shouted across the room in some accusatory tone after all. Courtesy of his innate ability to screw up most spells being taught in spectacular fashion. If Mirador was indeed a vampire, chances were he'd prefer a bite out a nice, juicy fat bully rather than one of Gryffindor's Chasers. Should he tell Draven that he was a Chaser? Come killing time, maybe his vampire brain would remember and consider a target that could fly away on a broom less desireable. Unless... maybe he prefers the challenge of hunting one, Finnegan thought miserably. Images of a cat toying with a mic before killing it flashed through his mind. Best to say nothing about being a Chaser after all. "Uh, we've got to make a Mind Altering Potion together," he started. Something about the boy's half-lidded eyes and the fact he'd just been sitting there in his dark, decrepit corner this entire time told him that Draven hadn't been paying particular attention. Probably hungry, probably thinking about his next meal... "As I'm sure you know" he tacked on quickly, not wishing to question the vampire's superior intellect. Truth be told, up close he didn't look that much like a vampire. Rather more like a tired and bored thirteen-year-old, all things considered. "The recipe says we've got to-" he looked down at his book for a second and frowned. Truly, they'd been relegated to the darkest, dampest corner of the room. He'd always chuckled at his grandma when she couldn't read regular print in broad daylight, but for the first time he understood what it was like. "Christ, I can't read a bloody thing in here, can you wand-light for me please?"

xx

Stamina 10 ✶ Evasion 10 ✶ Strength 2 ✶ Wisdom 4 ✶ Arcane Power 5 ✶ Accuracy 10

Draven didn't know how long he'd been staring at the bottle balanced precariously over the professor's head. He'd zoned out, surroundings blending into a watercolor blur. Grays mixed with shades of beige, with browns and murky greens. It was all nonesense really.

So when the classmate- Draven frowned, rifling through his memories for the boy's name. Fin- Finnigan. Like from The Hunger Games. Finnigan.

"You die," he said quietly, his eyes meeting Finn's. "In the third book. You die."

The boy had sat down beside him, chattering away, pulling his books out with a dexterity Draven envied. Only three minutes had passed, and their section was already organized, with Finnegan filling him in on what he'd missed. A mind altering potion. Did he know how to make one of those?

Draven picked up the book the other boy was holding, frowning at it under the dim light. He was right. There was no light in the god forsaken corner of hell.

"I'm sorry," Draven said absently. "I don't have my wand with me." He never did. "And I don't cast."

How long had it been then, since he'd last used the wand? Nearly two years, perhaps. It had taken much too long to unlearn the reflexes which had accompanied his every gesture. 'Lumos' and 'Reparo' had flown from his lips as easily as other words. And when he'd found himself trapped in a world where those words were just nonsense, and his wand was just a funny stick he could wave at people, it had been hard to relearn living. The first couple of months had felt like someone had shattered his wrist and then told him to write.

And by the Gods, he'd never feel that way again.

Draven set the book down, turning to look at Finnegan. The professor wouldn't assign them new partners. Finnegan was stuck with him. Or stuck doing the project by himself. Half of Draven wanted to tell the kid to scram. Go bother somebody else, who'd give him the attention he so craved by making a fool of himself in class. The other half was slowly watching as Draven slept away his days, snarled at anyone who got close, and couldn't bear to choke down food until he was near passing out. That part was winning.

Draven's hands shook as he leaned down slowly, methodically, unhooking the strap of his bag. The leather strip slipped out from its hooks, falling to the side as Dray reached inside the bag. And pulled out a metal box. Inside it sat candles and a lighter, both of which ended up on the desk between them.

"It's a bit old-fashioned," Draven swallowed, suddenly anxious. Finnegan's opinion of him didn't matter, not really. In the grand scheme of things, a random classmate looking at him strange was not going to alter the course of his life.

Plus, Finn had already been looking.

Draven rolled his shoulders back uncomfortably, turning on the lighter. He'd been looking at the shabby clothes a couple of days away from unraveling on his body. At his greasy hair, which he hadn't yet brought himself to wash. Fin had been looking, and hadn't said a word. In fact- the boy was sitting very politely in his spot.

"You should ask the professor for a new partner," Draven sighed, setting the lighter down. "I'm not- good. At this stuff."

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xxxGRYFFINDOR SECOND YEAR POTIONS CLASSROOM

Before the ball drops TBD of X 2024

xx

Draven Mirador was not alright. It wasn’t a stunningly perceptive conclusion to reach, but it hadn’t really landed with great clarity before now. Previously, Draven had merely inhabited the land of gossip and rumour where speculations were briefly entertained and soon forgotten. Now he was right there, in the flesh, looking utterly miserable and speaking of death. You could’ve just said “hi”, Finnegan thought, but annoyance soon made way for confusion. He felt rather alive, as much as one could be while being trapped in double potions with Slytherin anyway. What book? What was the dreary boy on about? Confusion flashed across his features while he mentally readjusted to how his cooperation with Draven Mirador was going to go. The best case scenario of simply melting his cauldron (like he was prone to do) now seemed wildly optimistic. Something far more disastrous was more probable, given that he would have to split his attention between brewing and making sure Mirador wasn’t gnashing his teeth or sharpening a shiv under the desk. “Oh, uh… thanks for letting me know?” he said, doing his best to avoid making it more awkward. Annoyingly, Draven’s words didn’t slip from his memory so easily. It wasn’t every day that he was forced to consider his demise and the boy had said it so matter-of-factly that he wondered if he knew something he didn’t. Best not to argue and hope for the flashes of madness to blow over. In the short while that followed, Draven made clear why his name was cloaked in rumours. A wandless wizard dressed in rags, without desire to cast, reduced to vacantly staring across the classroom. He had to be joking, right? But there was no sign on the other’s face indicating such. Finnegan felt the sudden urge to double down on his classes, get his assignments done and somehow, someway ensure that he would not end up like this. It looked utterly miserable. He was just about to fetch his own wand when Draven pulled out a candleholder of sorts. What kind of wizard carried around a lighter and candles? The kind that got stuck in 2nd year, apparently. The faint, flickering light lit up the boy’s face and revealed the morose expression written on it. He looked tired, like he had given up on staying alive and was merely waiting to fade into nothingness. If that was indeed his purpose, then he was well underway to achieving it. Greasy hair and threadbare clothes aside, he looked like he hadn’t had a proper meal in days. What on earth was the matter with him? “Neither am I,” Finn answered, a little more forcefully than he had intended. If he had bothered to think a little harder he would have inevitably found the boy’s strangeness further proof of his vampirism. But Draven Mirador just so happened to be seated next to someone who lived his life entirely on instinct. Perhaps, for just this once, it would do them both some good. Finnegan pressed his lips together into a thin, pensive line. “We’re not going to get anything done, are we?” It wasn’t admitting defeat, just a statement of fact. He turned to face Draven and looked him over once more, head to toe, toe to head, like he was playing at doctor. “Listen, you look tired and I don’t mind if you’d rather sleep. Here,” he rummaged through his own bag for a bit and pulled out a comfy gray sweater smelling faintly of fabric softener. “-here’s your pillow. I’ll give you a kick if the Professor comes snooping, alright? I’m dead serious, you need a rest.” The offer wasn’t entirely selfless. Finnegan thought he rather preferred the idea of attempting the potion alone rather than risk Draven messing it up. While he had no earthly idea if the boy was secretly a potion master, he did know that flubberworms and slugs could look surprisingly similar through the ever-narrowing slits that were Draven’s eyes. After he had deposited his makeshift pillow in Draven’s lap, he drew the book and candleholder closer to his side of their desk and began reading the instructions. While he worked he considered asking Draven if everything was alright, but it seemed a stupid question. Draven Mirador was not alright.

xx

Stamina 10 ✶ Evasion 10 ✶ Strength 2 ✶ Wisdom 4 ✶ Arcane Power 5 ✶ Accuracy 10

Finnegan Conner looked like he'd missed a couple growth spurts. As tall as he was quiet (not very), the boy stood beside Draven the way a particularly unseemly street cat sat beside a stranger. He regarded Draven with weary eyes, a tension to his shoulders and his jaw. His lips were a thin white line as he glanced over to the slytherin's side of the space.

It wasn't like Fin had much of a high horse to stand on, really. The boy's clothes weren't much better. Shabby, wrinkled, looking like he'd been pulled out from a laundromat and dumped unceremoniously in a basket rather than ironed or put away nicely. Stray inkblots peppered the boy's hands. Ink had somehow managed to find its way up to his face as well, a tiny blue stain just below his lip.

Draven's eyes followed the boy's sleeves, his coat. His pants had the air of clothing that had been sitting crumpled on a bedroom floor. Picked because it was the thing that smelled the least.

His shoelaces were untied.

Draven swallowed back the urge to drop down and tie them for Fin. The ends were dirty, covered in dust and mud. Perhaps they were untied so often the boy had stopped caring and simply stepped over them whenever the opportunity arose.

Pulling the book towards the light, Draven inspected the tiny lettering. They always printed the darn things way too small; he'd never understand that. The recipe was- well. A recipe. With math, and timings that made his head spin, ingredients he'd never heard of, and instructions he was about as likely to follow right as he was to start casting again.

"I slept." Draven's words were a bit more clipped than necessary, and not exactly reinforced by the deep creases underneath his eyes. In reality, fatigue tugged at him so viciously, he might as well have curled up under the desk right then and there.

But just like he couldn't sleep in the same room as some random kid who'd decided the Merlin dorms could have used a little first year charm, he couldn't pass out in a classroom full of snotty second years.

Once he closed his eyes, Draven wasn't sure he'd be able to wake up again for the next three business days.

A small bubble of air got caught in Draven's lungs. His eyes had fallen down to his feet, taking in the peeling bottoms of his shoes. He wasn't sure what exactly would happen if he fell asleep in the same class as the other kids. But judging from an experience he did not care to repeat, it wouldn't be pretty.

Hunger Games boy was still talking. His voice had become a blur, words merging together into an incomprehensible noise. He was pulling something out of his bag, Draven could tell from the corner of his eye. But lifting his head and glancing in the boy's direction was a herculean task, one he did not have energy for.

Perhaps he should have done it anyway. He would have picked up on the boy shoving the piece of cloth under his nose, the sweater pressing up against his arms. In that moment, several things registered.

The first was how nice the sweater smelled. The second, how it touched Draven's shabby hoodie- probably getting dirty just from the brief contact. A knot had lodged itself in the Slytherin's throat. The room was spinning. Keeping his balance on the shabby Potions Classroom chair was a perilous task. At any moment, Draven could have tipped forward and ended up with a concussion. But he couldn't bring himself to move either, his body having taken three steps away from him. His arms were uncoordinated, a suit that he'd forgotten how to puppet. A suit in which he was trapped.

The air bubble in his lungs popped across his lips quietly. He'd been holding on to it unconsciously, unsure whether he could take another full breath anytime soon. He'd been right.

Whatever stuffy, uncirculated air reigned in the potions classroom had become thick like molasses, trudging through his lungs painfully. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move either. Finnegan was still talking to him, but his throat had locked, his mind glazed over like a bad muggle computer three years past its expiration date.

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe, and he was going to die. Right there on that chair. In a cellar. Beside a boy who probably would have been anywhere else if he'd had the chance. He'd die.

Getting off the chair wasn't a luxury anymore; it was necessary. Draven picked up the boy's hoodie, pressing it back into Hunger Games' lap, and then slid off his stool. Pressing his back against the unsteady bookshelf towering over them, he pulled the messenger bag shakily into his lap. He brought his knees up, fighting for breath, putting a barrier between himself and the rest of the kids in the classroom.

🅵 I N N E G A Nxx🅲 O N N O R
xxxGRYFFINDOR SECOND YEAR POTIONS CLASSROOM

Before the ball drops TBD of X 2024

xx

Somewhere between being handed his hoodie back and preparing the ingredients for their potion, Draven had turned deadly pale. Like watching a plant wilt in mere seconds, the Slytherin boy shrunk and folded in on himself until he was but a heap of bones, cowering behind his bag. Without hesitation, Finnegan dropped into a crouch and rested his small hand on the boy's shoulder. “Hey, hey now...” he crooned softly, hoping to soothe the boy's panic. It had been a long time since he last saw anyone that terrified. Even longer since he had been the one comforting them. His heart skipped a beat as he gazed into Draven's wide eyes. There was something primal about the terror in those depths, something raw and undeniable that reached out and grabbed hold of his throat. This was more than a sudden bout of illness, he was certain of it, though he had no clue what had caused it. Forcing himself to remain calm, Finnegan squeezed Draven's bony shoulders with both hands, hoping to draw his attention away from whatever was causing him so much distress. "I'm right here OK? Deep breaths." His chest puffed as he sucked in a deep breath, intending to have Draven follow his lead, to at least entice him away from whatever edge he was dangling over. With a glance over his shoulder he called out to the Professor, said something about "fumes" and "having to leave." One look by the Professor was enough to get the approval he needed to get Draven out of this dark, cramped classroom. "Come on," he said, ignoring the many heads turning their way, "we're getting out of here." He extended his arms, hooking them underneath the boy's armpits and began to pull him up. If he could just get him up on his pins, just get him out the door and into the empty hallway, just get him to a spot of fresh air... He was close to Draven, pressed up against him in some strange hug while he tried to get the older boy up, close enough to wonder if the rags would rub off on him. Murmurs sprung up around them, eyes burning into them, questions bubbling up. "What's wrong with him?" one voice would ask. "Did he just faint?" another mocked. Finnegan ignored them and whispered into Draven's ear while he tried to get the boy to move. "Don't mind them, just listen to me, just listen to my voice and get up, we're getting out of here, OK? I just need you to get up, you can lean on me..."

xx

Sorry for the long wait and short reply @Draven Mirador. I didn't want to jump too far head or make too many assumptions

Stamina 10 ✶ Evasion 10 ✶ Strength 2 ✶ Wisdom 4 ✶ Arcane Power 5 ✶ Accuracy 10

Being touched during an episode wasn't exactly Draven's idea of a good time. He'd learned to lean into them. Ride them out until whatever chemical imbalance lit up his brain like fireworks subdued. He could feel Finnigan's hands on him distantly, could feel the other boy's fingers digging into his arms, pulling him close.

Smoke.

He needed a smoke.

The Draughts of Peace were prescription, not to be taken willy nilly. He must have forgotten that morning. He couldn't remember going to the nurse.

He needed a smoke. Fumbling for his bag blindly, Draven took the help he was being offered. He climbed to his feet unsteadily, a wave of nausea nearly bringing him back down to his knees the instant he was up.

He was going to die.

But Finn was holding on to him, the boy's surprisingly strong grip keeping him steady.

Draven didn't remember how they made it out of the classroom, just that one moment he'd been shaking, barely able to stand. And the next he was being deposited on the stairs outside, leaned up against the stone. Fumes. Finnick had said something about fumes.

Merlin loved the boy's name, Finnick. He wanted to repeat it like a mantra, feel his tongue trip over the consonants. Or was it Finnegan?

Finnegan. Yeah.

Like from The Hunger Games.

Where were they?

Draven sucked in a lungful of the musty dungeon air, pressing his hands over his ears. Dungeon. They were on the dungeon stairs. It was too loud. Everything was too loud, and too bright, and too present in the moment. He needed to leave. He needed to get out.

He needed his pulse to slow down and the horrible way his hands shook to stop.

One thing at a time. He needed to focus. On one thing at a time.

Not a dungeon. A basement. They were in the Hogwarts basement. Draven swallowed, looking for something to grab on to. Something that would ground him. His bag was somehow, miraculously, still clutched in his hands. It was heavy, heavier than it should have been. Pressing it to his chest felt good. It was a barrier from the world. It was a barrier from - Fin...Fin. Finnegan. Not Finnick. Finnegan.

Smoke. He needed a smoke.

That would make the world stop spinning. Put a barrier between him and the noise. Him and the texture of the clothes on his skin. Him and the damp, musty smell.

The cigarettes were in his pocket already, thank Merlin. He didn't have to dig through the bag for them. He could barely hold on to the pack for long enough to pull one out, but somehow, after much shaking and fumbling with the lid, he managed it.

It was the lighter that was the tricky part. Holding the flame steady enough to set the end ablaze. Golden light spilled across him and Finnegan's faces, the smell of tobacco covering up the stench of mold seconds later.

Draven swallowed. His head spun.

It took a few seconds for the nic to kick in. Draven focused on dragging the air into his lungs. Inhale. One. Two. Three. Exhale. One. Two. Three. Four. They were on the stairs. They were on the stairs outside of the potions classroom. They. Him and Finnegan. Not Finnick. Finnegan. Finnegan who'd had to drag him out of the classroom. How old was the boy.

"Twelve." Draven shuddered. "You're twelve."

Merlin, he was a piece of shit.

Making a twelve-year-old drag him out of the classroom. He was a foot taller than the boy. At least. He was two years older. He'd lived long enough to know what happened to addict pieces of trash like him. He and Finn weren't in the same league, not in the same league by far. The kid had a future, and had the diligence and ability to pull himself together. Draven was stuck, unable to make it through half a potions classroom.

The smoke made his head spin, drowning out the discordant noise. One. Two. Three. Finnegan. Not Finnick. One. Two. Three.

Unable to make it through half a potions classroom that he should have graduated a year before.

Cigarettes were medicine. He'd realized some time ago. They were meant for bodies like his, that couldn't regulate themselves. Some of the muggle kids he'd been around vaped. Apparently, it was easier on their lungs. There was tar in cigarettes, and who knew what else.

Draven took a long, deep drag.

Blue smoke rose steadily from the end of the cigarette, curling up in the air between them. Gold and orange and navy. Outside of their circle of light, the kids in the potions classroom chattered mindlessly.

One. Two. Three.

One.

Two.

Draven exhaled, closing his eyes. Twelve. The boy was twelve.

"I'm sorry," he said. His voice seemed far away, belonging to a body he was trapped in but not fully in control of. "You shouldn't have had to do that." It was a horrible sound that came out of Draven's mouth. A hacking cough that he turned away from the other kid to mask. It didn't do much good.

He swallowed, licking his lips. They were cracked. Broken in places, blood from where he'd tugged at them drying into a crust.

"I'm so. So. Sorry. Finnegan."

🅵 I N N E G A Nxx🅲 O N N O R
xxxGRYFFINDOR SECOND YEAR POTIONS CLASSROOM

Before the ball drops TBD of X 2024

xx

Finnegan's heart thumped in his chest as all attempts to anchor Draven to reality seemed to falter. The boy in his rags couldn't weigh much, but getting him out the classroom had been a herculean effort for his twig-like arms. Wiping a drop of swest off his brow he looled the sorry excuse for a Slytherin over.He'd suspected there was something deeply wrong, but watching the Slytherin boy crumble to pieces had been beyond what he'd imagined. Not a vampire, that was for sure and certain. He never had he seen anyone unravel so quickly and so completely. The poor boy looked like he was held together by thin, straining strings of willpower and now he had none left. As the cigarette was lit, Finnegan watched the way Draven clung to it, a lifeline to his shaking hands, like a drowning man clinging to a flotsam at sea. Gray smoke curled up, painting ghostly wisps into the musty dungeon air, and with it came relief. He couldn't fathom what Draven had been through to put him in this state, but at that moment, it didn't matter. What mattered was helping him through it, to offer a little respite from what - judging by the state of him, must've been a more frequent occurence. "Twelve and a half," Finnegan confirmed with a nod. When trying to seem mature, every month and every inch counted. He straightened up a bit, but Draven seemed far too caught up in his own struggle to notice. The realization that he was dealing with someone older, someone who should have been in a different year, weighed on him. In youth especially, age determined the picking order and he wasn't sure how he was supposed to offer help or solace to someone who was supposed to know better than him. When Draven's first attempt to apologize stumbled out, guttural and broken, Finnegan's heart ached. "Don't worry about it," he said, trying for a soothing tone. "Everyone needs help sometimes." Reaching into his bag, he searched for anything that might offer some comfort. He pulled out a small bottle of water and a bit of hazelnut chocolate — a leftover snack he hadn't gotten a chance to eat earlier. The chocolate was a bit crumbled, but it was better than nothing. He handed both to Draven gingerly, wary of the boy's fragile state. "Here," he said, holding the items out. "Have something to eat and drink. It might help." The low, distant rumbling of the storm raging outside and the smoke wafting from Draven's cigarette, creating a haze around them, made for an almost peaceful scene. But then the hacking cough punctured the silence, and Finnegan winced at the sound of it but didn't flinch away. Staying present and supportive was all he could do. The needy drafts, cheeks hollowing with every pull, seemed to ground Draven in a way Finnegan didn't quite understand. Swallowing his hesitation, Finnegan sat beside Draven, angling himself to shield the older boy from any glances that a passerby might throw their way. The stray cat sat close to the scarecrow, almost cuddling up to him, like he wanted to be petted. "It's alright," he repeated quietly. "You'll be alright." A small, curious thought drifted into Finnegan's mind as he watched the cigarette burn slowly between Draven's fingers. He’d always been told smoking was bad, but there was a certain allure to it, something rebellious. Plus, seeing how much it seemed to help Draven, he couldn't help but wonder if it might offer him some relief too. Gathering his courage, he looked at Draven, the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. "Can I... Can I have one?" he asked tentatively, gesturing to Draven's cigarette pack. "Just to try."

xx

Stamina 10 ✶ Evasion 10 ✶ Strength 2 ✶ Wisdom 4 ✶ Arcane Power 5 ✶ Accuracy 10

@Draven Mirador

Draven eyed the snacks. Normally, he'd have said no without a second thought. But if the boy wanted to hurt him, he could have just. Left him as he was. Finnegan had no need to drag him out of the classroom and help him regulate.

"Thanks," he said, twisting the cap off Finnegan's bottle, and taking a tiny sip. "How much was this- three sickles? Maybe? Hold on." Setting the bottle down, Draven pulled the silver coins from out his bag, pressing them into Finnegan's palm. Touch made him shudder, but it was better than debt.

"Sorry. About that. The nurse and I are still trying to figure out a potion that works on me. I've had a shit couple years, and it- messed with my head a little."

Another drag. With each hit, Draven's jaw loosened.

The boy blinked. "Oh. Sure-" Fishing a cigarette out of the pack, Draven handed it to Fin. "Breathe in when I hold the lighter up to the en- yeah. Like that. Good job."

Before long, Finnegan's cigarette was glowing a beautiful orange light. They sat, the two of them, on the broken-down basement stairs, Finn's lanky form unsuccessfully trying to shield Draven from the classroom. He appreciated it, though the attempt was rather feeble.

The boy's hands had stopped shaking.

Maybe it was because they were away from the classroom, that Draven had calmed down. Maybe it was the darkness that enveloped them, or the lack of noise. But the frail, panicking boy underneath Mirador's skin had retreated. He was showing his age again, feet firmly planted on the ground, breathing steady. His voice was a drawl, lazy as smoke poured from between his lips. Pursing his lips, Draven blew out a ring. And then another, making the first pass through the second. He'd wasted the nicotine, but what was waste in the face of art?

He wasn't really supposed to be smoking, he supposed. But what would they do? Ask him to stop? He snickered at the thought, rolling his shoulders back. He was steadier now. That was the nice thing about his comedowns. After all the chemicals had stopped firing, and all the stupid electrical impulses in his brain had resumed the way they were supposed to. The attacks left him lightheaded but grounded. So much better.

"You're right," he said, breaking off a piece of the chocolate. "It does help. Helps a lot actually. Good thinking."

It had been the same with Wyatt. A horrible build, a plateau that left him wondering why he was still in Hogwarts, and a very, very sudden comedown. He felt more like himself then, without the anxiety gnawing away at the inside of his mind.

He breathed out, popping the tiny square of chocolate in his mouth. Normally, he would have let it melt by itself. Felt around it carefully, moving his tongue to avoid cuts. But no. No. Finnegan had nothing to gain from- Draven moved the candy to the corner of his mouth, biting down carefully. Just like he'd suspected, there was nothing hidden in the chocolate. And there never would be. Not at Hogwarts. Not from a 12 year old.

He needed to talk with the headmaster.

Develop coping strategies that didn't end up with him having a breakdown in the middle of the potions classroom. Needed to talk with the professor as well. Ask for a remediated course, something, anything that would prevent days like that from happening again.

The chocolate was good though.

It had been far too long since he'd eaten something that good.

His cigarette was done. He snuffed it out before it could burn his fingers, and lit another. "You're okay," Draven said, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "For a twelve year old."

🅵 I N N E G A Nxx🅲 O N N O R
xxxGRYFFINDOR SECOND YEAR POTIONS CLASSROOM

Before the ball drops TBD of X 2024

xx

At first, Finnegan fumbled with the cigarette in his fingers, too amazed that it had been quite so easy to obtain one. Maybe he shouldn't be so surprised, the boy looked and sounded like he'd been doing this for a while and didn't seem particularly concerned about all the rules they were breaking. As a matter of fact, Draven Mirador was probably already breaking several laws of nature just by existing. "Thanks," Finnegan muttered, trying to keep his voice even and play it cool; like he got cigarettes handed to him everyday because he was just so popular and grand. There wasn't any time to hesitate or feel anxious about tasting the forbidden fruit, Draven already had his lighter out. Mimicking what he'd seen the teen do, he pressed the butt end between his lips with just enough slack on his lower lip that the tip dipped into the flame. The first drag was harsh, the smoke clawed its way down his throat, making his eyes burn and water. He coughed, but on the outside at least, managed to keep his composure surprisingly well. The burn was unfamiliar and sharp, the taste downright horrid, but there was something steadying about it, he supposed. Maybe that was why Draven seemed so much more at ease now. He took another, slower drag, a little easier on the throat. A heady rush washed over him that made the dungeon's dim walls blur momentarily. After he'd exhaled he thought it best to wait a bit before taking another puff or he'd make a fool of himself and pass out. Draven pressed three sickles into his slack hand hanging loosely by his side. If he hadn't been feeling a little dazed, he might've said something about it. Instead, he simply accepted the payment until Draven distracted himself with a fresh inhalation and a glance to the side. Discreetly, Finnegan used the opportunity to slip the coins back into the Slytherin's bag. The cigarette was payment enough. He thought on Draven’s shaky explanation about his struggles and for a moment, his thin, arched brows knitted together while his eyes narrowed to a pensive squint. Whatever had happened to Draven must've been pretty serious, but he didn't ask just yet, perhaps sensing instinctively that the boy had more to say first. Sometimes, just listening was the most helpful thing to do, his mother had taught him that. For a while Finnegan just sat and observed the rings Draven made with a growing smile. He seemed much better already, even more so after he'd nibbled some of the chocolate. More like a budding teen having a rough day and less like a skeleton on its last legs. While he sat and watched approvingly, a tiny mound of white ash had been forming near his boot, falling from the edge of his ignored smoke. Only now did he notice his loose shoelaces and set about fixing them after he'd given the cigarette a little tap and put it back in his mouth. "You're okay for a vampire," he shot back while he retied his shoes. A little puff of smoke clouded his vision. "Some people think you're one, did you know?" He'd seen the dried blood on the boy's cracked lips but out here, in the hallways where there was air to breathe and space to think, Draven seemed more like a rebellious teen with a poor fashion sense and far less like a bloodsucking monster of the night. "People say loads of things about you," he continued, "just not to your face." He looked straight at Draven, gaze unwavering. "They think you're weird, that you dress funny, that you aren't all there." The lightheadedness was getting too much so he put his cigarette out on the stone and saved the stub in his pocket for another rainy day. "They're wrong though. You're just one glowup away from looking the coolest kid in 2nd year, you've just gotta do your hair up a little, get some fresh clothes, take a shower and if the nurse gets that potion figured, you'll be right as rain." If he had any inhibitions at all about telling the older boy what to do, he wasn't showing it. Maybe the cigarette had made him a little bolder than usual, but someone had to tell Draven to his face that he needed a wash. Well-wishes and sugared words weren't going to get the teenager out of the swamp he wallowed in, he needed a rope and someone willing to yank at it. "You'll feel better, you will, I love showers, helps me think." At least he had the decency to shrug at the end, leaving the ultimate decision up to Draven. Maybe he liked living in his moody swamp just fine. "My mum packed me some bigger clothes cause she thought I might grow but..." Well that clearly hadn't happened yet. "You can have them, nothing fancy, just don't have holes in them, you're pretty skinny so they should fit you just fine and they're all fresh." He stood up, dusted himself off and motioned his chin toward the far end of the hallway from where they could ultimately get to Gryffindor tower. "If not for that, you should come for the view, there's a way to get on the roof, if you dare, plenty fresh air too," and a free shower from mother nature he thought to himself. Either would do the teen some good.

xx

Stamina 10 ✶ Evasion 10 ✶ Strength 2 ✶ Wisdom 4 ✶ Arcane Power 5 ✶ Accuracy 10

@Draven Mirador