For A Reason pv

It is one of those days, where he wakes up at the break of day and immediately feels at a loss what to do with himself. Sitting up in the large canopied bed and absent-mindedly sweeping heavy covers to the side, Rafal had stared vaguely at some spot around where his feet laid, pensive. No lessons upcoming, nor premeditated plans of any sort. The elements set up what ought to have been a prime opportunity for frolicking and whatnot, but the Slytherin had simply settled on wandering around the confines of the castle for most of the morning, wasting away at the hours.

But now lunch had come and gone, and Rafal resolved to end this state of purgatory. So he had went and gotten a school broom from the designated shed - yes, he does have his own, but the Slytherin dorms are just so far away - and is now trekking the journey to the infamous Quidditch training pitch.

Flying practice seems like a fairly solid way to make use of the time, all things considered. With the new school year had come Rafal’s long-awaited acceptance into a house sports team, and while the specific nature of the activity had not been broom racing as previously aspired, the one he ended up in is good enough. The pair were not so drastically different from each other in a way, what with taking to the air, as well as general precariousness of the games.

Besides, he is grateful enough not to be stuck with the third, and patently most inferior of the three options: duelling. While Rafal is not much of a hater on the whole, in his mind, there is no plausible reason any rational student would opt for that in lieu of the other, far finer options. Duels cannot even technically be classified a sport. They are contests of memory and proper pronunciation under duress.

All this is running through the second year’s mind as he makes his way down the familiar weathered dirt path. Winding down the gentle slope, the nip in crisp autumn air biting but not unpleasant. The borrowed broomstick is propped unceremoniously over his shoulder, and it can be attributed to a mix of all the elements that when Rafal at last enters the secluded sanctuary, he does not see danger until it is too late.

Interacting with @Charlotte Winfield

It is perhaps ironic, but this is not the first time Rafal has been victim of a sudden and violent accident on these very grounds. True as the name would suggest, the Quidditch Training Pitch is commonplace for flying mishaps, and frankly, one would’ve thought that this, along with the fact that this very occurrence has happened to the Slytherin before, would have prompted him to pay greater heed of everything in his vicinity while on these little excursions here. Yet no, the lesson has not been learned. And now he is paying the price. For the second time. There is a certain effacing hilarity in the situation, but damned if he is in any mood to appreciate it.

For a moment, Rafal simply lays there, staring up into the glaring skies with a certain air of resignation and wishing he had thought to invest in a sturdy chest-plate. The entire string of events had been a blur of an invisible force and a foreign voice’s yelp, mix of shock and pain. It certainly encapsulates the second year’s state of being at the moment.

A few seconds pass before there is any movement from the other individual involved in the calamity. Arguably the instigator, but of course, Rafal is not one to point fingers. He does wish he were, though. He promptly follows suit as the assailant sits up, which soon turns out to be one of his more unwise decisions. A sharp pain in his chest right at the spot that was rammed straight into, subsequently accompanied by a sudden dizziness that prompts a hand to shoot out, gripping the grassy floors with a certain stiffness.

Well. That was fun. A pale whisper from his side induces Rafal to swivel and at long last, lock eyes with the cause of all this suffering. It is… unfortunate.

Dusky locks turned disheveled, eyes a most distinct shade of olive, soft rounded features. There is no doubt as to the girl’s enticement, even despite such recent mishaps. This newfound development, contrary to pacification, slightly irks Rafal more than he would avow. It is very confusing, this clash of aggravation at this student’s ungainliness, to befogging attraction. The Slytherin finds he does not care for the feeling in the slightest.

If his brain had not been so freshly scrambled by getting all knocked around, Rafal might have recognised the patent signs of veela allure. As it is, the thought does not even cross the young boy’s mind, and the irritation bubbles up, until he rather uncharacteristically snaps. Ignoring the girl’s well-meaning inquiry of physical condition, he instead chooses to fix her with the most withering stare. It is a demeanour he is not used to, but Rafal gives it his best shot. "Do I look all right to you? You got eyes, please enlighten me."

Interacting with @Charlotte Winfield

His assailant’s demeanour changes in an instant, turning a a complete, clean-cut one-eighty from tentative consternation and perhaps even a lap of foggy solicitude, to biting venom and words designed for mutilation. A reasonably natural development, by all means, and hardly unforeseen; considering the Slytherin boy’s former crude hostility in response to what can frankly only be categorized as some physical manifestation of his truly wretched luck.

It would really be quite unwarrantable for him to lay all his misplaced aggressions on this poor unfortunate girl - though granted, with the most dreadful of flying abilities. However, Rafal is too far in it to back down now, and he shall defend his figurative honour to the bloody end.

He straightens to as tall as he can be with no lower half in the equation, unyielding in the most withering of gazes. "Oh, please." Sardonic tones are another aspect of confrontation Rafal has not yet mastered, but like everything else in his life, he gives it his all. As they say, he shall go down swinging. "Don’t act all high and mighty, your holiness. Just because you can’t bloody fly in a straight path doesn’t mean you can blame everyone else for your own inadequacies."

That’s not bad, surely? In some ironic way, this is turning out to be quite a fruitful experience for the young boy. Verbal invective are a crucial facet of life Rafal hardly ever gets practice in, and this interaction shall certainly qualify as such. "May I suggest, you pursue some more manageable form of pastime?" Punctuating this derogatory proclamation with a taunting smile no short in derisiveness, he continues airily, "Perhaps something small and simple. Quilting, or maybe photography. As long as you don’t trip and clob anyone over the head with your camera, we should be fine."

Far in the back of his mind, the Slytherin hazily muses that this is truly a day for new experiences. How could he have expected this, far back in the wee hours of the morning?

Tragically, he is not finished. "And you’re speaking of my mother?" The Silver Arrow laying jumbled by the pair has not escaped Rafal’s notice. And at that moment, he cannot say for sure - whether it is the clear inferiority of his own raggedy broomstick next to the gorgeous, sleek model, bubbling envy or simply the fact that his head had gotten a good jostling for a few minutes prior - but the second year makes a wild postulation. He leans forward, in a faux air of confidentiality, unrelenting in contumelious glare. "And least my parents don’t use monetary possessions to try and compensate for their lack of love and company."

He wisely opts to leave out the part where his own home life is the furthest thing from niverna. Of course, the contemptuous comment is rather a reach, considering he does not know the darnest thing about this girl - but Rafal’s track of mind at the very second is that should he land accurately, the proceeding sting simply cannot be passed up.

Plus, it is a reasonable estimation. Filthy expensive broom. Aristocrat-looking individual. There is no shortage of filthy rich pure-bloods here at Hogwarts, and from the boy’s year here, he has deduced that a widespread trait of the lot is their ceaseless family drama. Honestly, a bunch of wussies, the whole lot of them. And if he should turn out to be wrong, well - Rafal shall simply hex the girl and run away. Then never, ever come back to this place again.

Interacting with @Charlotte Winfield