A Duel in Ink
Placing a hand upon the thick strap of the satchel to support the weight of half a dozen books, she turned from the mirror and stepped quietly out of the dormitory. Tap, tap, tap, the heels of her polished shoes clicked against the tiled floor in silent rhythm, signalling to whoever was awake that Miss Elisa Wagner was already on a head start for the day. It was, in fact, quite early. As she descended the steps to the Common Room, Elisa could tell from the tranquil stillness in the air that few of the Hogwarts students and teachers were awake yet. The early autumn sun was still low in the sky, its rays spilling through the waters of the Great Lake and filing through the green stained windows to illuminate the Slytherin Common Room with pale, arching shadows.
Whatever the young third year might have felt about the House of Slytherin when the Sorting Hat had proclaimed her as a snake back in her first year, it was completely replaced by something entirely new by now. She loved the soft scent of parchment in the slightly humid air, the heavy yet peaceful atmosphere encircling her as she travelled through the cushioned settees and velvet green armchairs.
Her footsteps even and her pace controlled, Elisa travelled through the ancient corridors of Hogwarts Castle and arrived upon the great oak doors of the Great Hall. She spotted a few nervous first years - surely some early risers eager for the start of lessons - scurrying along behind her, probably lost in the maze that was Hogwarts but too shy to ask for help. It was strange to think that Elisa had been one of those squirmish kids only two years ago.
By the time the Slytherin pupil finished her breakfast, the Great Hall was starting to fill up. After offering a few friendly greetings to some familiar faces, Elisa departed from the bustling tables to start the climb up the mischievous Hogwarts staircases. Her first class for the day was Study of Ancient Runes, an elective subject for third years that Elisa had gladly ticked on her list. That decision was more from instinct than from any logical reasoning - the subject was not one of those compulsory for a Healing degree. Perhaps it was her love of books and fascination of words, or perhaps it was the resonation of ancient magic that attracted the young girl to this particular class. Regardless of the subject, however, Elisa was determined to excel. Academics were her domain.
The journey up to the North Tower proved more difficult than Elisa had imagined - some time was wasted on the swivelling staircases and a tapestry that hid a doorway. It was only the second time she had made the climb all the way to the tower, the first being two years ago when she was still learning the complex map of Hogwarts.
She arrived to the classroom barely ten minutes away from the start of class. A polite greeting was said to the professor before Elisa settled in an empty seat and began taking out her textbook, a stack of parchment, a bottle of ink and an owl feather quill. She sat straight-backed in her chair, arms folded neatly on the table and seemingly oblivious to the chatter of the other students.
Elisa Wagner | Clément Guillaume Cantegrel
SHOP | GALLERY
sta 6 | eva 10 | str 3 | wis 9 | arc 8 | acc 10
SHOP | GALLERY
sta 6 | eva 10 | str 3 | wis 9 | arc 8 | acc 10
A Duel in Ink
_GDL_ |
───────────────────────────────────────────────── It was funny, really, how distance could be so vast, how it could stretch like the horizon, a promise of space and air, and quiet where one could feel untouchable and inviolate, and yet how it could feel so small, mean so little, collapsing in the mind until every expectation and every obligation felt closer than ever. There was so much freedom Giovanni had here, away from the restrictive walls of the manor, where he could walk where he wanted, wearing what he wanted, eat what he pleased in the mornings, (the sheer amount of raspberry jam on toast that he consumed at breakfast routinely would send his mother into a coma), exist without critical observation to measure the angle of his spine or the tilt of his head. And yet, in moments like this, where the biting words of his parents sent in the form of black looping cursive became tangible, it almost felt like he was back there anyway, like a dragon shackled by iron chains at the ankle, forced along a false trajectory of hope, where he was free to fly only until certain point before being jerked back to confinement. Confined to his mothers harsh grip and cruel words that clung to him like a second skin he could never shed. It was a numbness in his legs that alerted him to just how long he had been standing there, eyes of a storm-tossed sea tracking the dark ink of his parents' letter within the owlery’s chill, a place of high beams and cooing birds, the morning sun strained, reaching through the narrow windows. It was September, and so, naturally, when he woke, the mornings still held the hush of the lingering night. But as he raised his head, he was aware of how much more light seemed to be spilling through the high windows, and how much time he must have spent here, dressed in the muted black and blue of his uniform, holding a piece of parchment that was crisp edged and rolled open not quite all the way, as though leaving it curled may prevent the words from jumping out at him and clawing at his skin. Yes, it was funny, how all these miles away at Hogwarts he could feel his mother behind him as though she were peering over his shoulder at this very moment, flicking sentences of reprimand into his ear, the words as casual to her as it was for her to breathe, crisp as the chilly september air, each syllable a blade tracing the vulnerable places he refused to show willingly, yet she managed to see nonetheless. Even in the lofty quiet of the owlery, in the early morning, it seemed he could not hide; the world had already reached him through ink and paper, through the unrelenting order of expectation dotted in every ‘i’ and full stop, through the echo of a name he was forbidden to forget. A quick glance at his watch had Giovanni realising that he was late, and oh crap, he’d missed out on breakfast too. He thought about crushing the letter in his fist and then, feeling some odd sort of sensation almost as if he were to do that his mother might jump out of the shadows and drag him back to Florence, he decided against it, folding as harshly as he could before shoving it deep into the pocket of his robes before making his way down the stairs of the owlery. If he walked fast, he could make it to class with two minutes to spare, uncharacteristic for him, yes, but not unusual for those sorts of students who were partial to the outcome of their grades; therefore, he would blend in fine. The corridors were busy with the last-minute rush of students heading this way and that, and Giovanni found himself exercising immense patience as he waded through gaggles of students, many of whom seemed in no rush at all to get to their lessons, and had opted to stand inconveniently in the middle of the corridor in groups, instead of making way for people to pass. Nevertheless, he mostly moved through the castle almost without really seeing it, his eyes fixed on the rhythm of his own steps while his mind unravelled itself elsewhere. The image of Elena rose unbidden, that careful sweetness of hers lingering at the edges of his thoughts, one he had not meant to invite, yet could never seem to dismiss, especially in this past month since returning to Hogwarts. Would he show her the letter later? Perhaps, when he retreated with her to the old, unused greenhouses, their usual spot for stolen afternoons and quiet conversation. His shoulder collided with another student as he turned a corner distractedly, a soft jolt that sent a distracted “sorry” past his lips, but he barely noticed the contact, wondering what Elena’s face would look like later if he gave her the letter to read, how her brows might draw together in quiet concern, a delicate crease forming between them as she read. If perhaps afterwards, to cheer him, she might do or say something that would make him smile despite himself, averting his eyes as though it would hide the upwards quirk of his lips that always threatened to spill into a smile when Elena was near. And he, in turn, might tease her, lightly, carelessly, say anything at all, if only to watch her head tip back with that bright sprinkle of laughter, to see her curls catch the golden sunlight that gleamed through the broken glass of the old greenhouse and cast her hair in a light akin to threads of spun amber, shimmering. And in that fleeting moment, it would feel like a silent reward, entirely his. Sometimes he and her, spoke more deeply about things, about families and feelings, and sometimes they didn’t. Yet in either case, Elena had a way of absorbing everything fully, holding it with a seriousness that made even passing discomfort feel dignified, whether voiced or unspoken. He shook himself from his thoughts as he arrived, pushing open the classroom door and stepping inside with careful composure. As he walked over to an empty seat and sat, tilting his wrist to check his watch and- ha! - two minutes to spare as he rightly predicted. With methodical precision, he pulled out his supplies from his satchel, setting them neatly on the table in front of him, and the lesson began. For a few minutes, he allowed himself to drift into the cadence he loved when taking Ancient Runes; studying, absorbing. Yet the tension from the morning clung to him like damp clothes after getting caught in the rain. It still bit at the edges of his mind, gnawing like a field mouse, and the more these thoughts filtered through his subconscious, the more his hand tightened around his quill, until there was a sudden snap, and Giovanni looked down, appalled, to see two pieces of quill tumble onto his parchment. Resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, he reached into his bag for a spare. His fingers brushed the material of his bag, an anthology, a scroll of spare parchment, a lighter, but no spare quill. A faint frown crossed his dark eyebrows, the lines sharpening his otherwise composed, handsome features. Had he forgotten to bring an extra? His brain, still weighted with thoughts of letters, sunlight, and Elena, had betrayed him. He turned to see who was sitting next to him, for in the scramble of arriving just on time, snapping his quill, and organising his desk, he hadn’t bothered to look. Not that he usually did. Most people were background noise, unnecessary, easily ignored. She wasn’t. There was a quiet deliberation in the way this girl held herself. As though every gesture of hers was measured, like she was aware of the space she occupied and refused to waste it. He blinked. Her skin was pale, smooth as untouched parchment, and from Giovanni’s current angle, he couldnt quite see the colour of her eyes yet, for they lingered over her work with a patience that felt almost deliberate, as if she were coaxing meaning from the ink itself. Her braid, fell neat and smooth down her back like a single ribbon of polished wood, and Giovanni noted her appearance with that particular quietness reserved for things he considered captivating. Her hands were hovered over her parchment with the delicate precision of someone threading a needle, and she didn’t fidget or rush, but simply existed within the lines she drew for herself, like some sort of ballerina following a graceful choreography on stage. Giovanni should ask her if he could borrow a quill. But asking was foreign to him, and the thought of exposing even a hint of reliance, of admitting he could not manage his own things alone, felt intolerable, even for something so trivial like this. So while mentally plotting how he might approach the impossible task of needing something from someone else, while keeping every shred of his composure intact, he stared absentmindedly at her side profile, studying her, watching how her braid caught the light every time she shifted. ────────────────────────────────────────────────── | _GDL_ |
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*ੈ✩‧₊˚Star-pale, celestial, neither flesh nor blood.⋆⭒ ࣪ .⋆
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