Have you seen Bob? Pv. Rafal Devereux

Rafal is in one of those musing moods this day, where he looks upon everything and every-one with a certain air of pondering appraisal and cannot seem to focus on the most elementary of tasks for the life of him. It is as if he is lost in reverie, head in metaphorical clouds and unable to find his way back to earth. The feeling is not unpleasant. He is not delirious, per se, though outwardly it may surely seem so - more as if he is in a daydream that has not yet ended, and which gifts everything a delightfully and dreamingly charming quality. Even the things which habitually vex the Slytherin to no end, now seem pleasantly endearing.

Say, for instance, the collective determination of all Hogwarts student population to make the school corridors a treacherous zone of destruction and chaos in between lesson times - when some great big oaf decided it was somehow a good idea to practice spells he has not yet even remotely grasped the concept of, in the very space where hundreds of teenagers are fighting and jostling to get to their next class, and manages to grant Rafal’s satchel a most splendid shade of neon fuchsia? The Slytherin simply smiled serenely, and walked away. It is truly refreshing to be this blasé. He sees why monks and wise men live so long.

As opposed to the second year’s general intense state of perfervidness on most occasions. If one asks, Rafal could not say what brought about this unforeseen and abrupt change. Perhaps his brain went through all his recent endeavours, and resolved by itself that a break was imperative for its host’s overall well-being, both mental and physical. Sadly, the Slytherin suspects his newfound insouciance is not here to stay. At any rate, he shall not complain at the moment. Not to look a gift hippogriff in the beak, as they say.

At present, he is walking down a largely deserted passageway, hands clasped behind his back in a somewhat pantomime fashion and putting one foot in front of another with an air of airiness. And yes, that was indeed a bit of word play there. Because that is who Rafal is now, he is calm and genial and he has achieved ataraxia through a series of -

He rounds a corner and stops dead in his tracks. For a second where time seems to stand still, he does not move, simply remaining intact and unmoving like he has been victim to a Full Body-Bind Curse. Frankly, the latter would be far less complex and headache inducing than what truly caused the boy to slam the brakes so abruptly on his extremely short-lived newfound tranquility. That is gone now, thrown out one of those high and intricate windows and then at once snatched far, far away by a swooping eagle, assuredly never to be seen again. All in all, the entire period lasted perhaps four or five hours. An unprecedented record, surely.

Because Stelle. The Slytherin cannot manage to form a more articulate sentence at the moment. Memories of handsome paintings, of arresting bambi eyes, of the most entrancing voice and idyllic settings. Of a night which brought about the beginnings of the most quixotic imaginings, the likes of which Rafal has experienced, never before and never since.

And now, there she is. Inserted into this seemingly mundane day, as if he is still dreaming in his dorm deep in the dungeons and his brain has managed to serve up the wildest illusion seized from the very back of the chasmic space in the Slytherin’s mind. The cruellest jest from what ought to have been his most trusted companion, indeed.

She is relatively unchanged from last they met, and naturally, just as breathtaking. Spun gold cascading down her back in tresses of spirals and whorls, skin so ivory it almost glows. At the second, she appears to be crouching for some purpose only herself is knowing of, with head lightly bent, yet somehow manages to make this gauche motion the very epitome of grace and finesse. She almost seems to emit a natural glow, casting light on everything around her and simultaneously, it is as if all the colours of the realistic world fade away next to her, knowing they cannot compare. She is like some character straight out of a story-book, Rafal thinks hazily, some princess or fairy or nymph from some far-away land, here to cast her ameliorating magics on a grey and dull foreign dimension.

Well. Consider him a willing subject. And Stelle is right there, and he wants terribly to go up, to talk and to hear that melodious voice, be seen and picked apart and apart by that perfervid gaze. But the second year finds, with great nonplus, that he has most recently been glued to the cold stone tiles, the soles of his shoes so masterly fastened to brick that it is quite genuinely impossible for Rafal to budge even an inch forward. Or back any.

He feels his breaths quicken with each passing moment, heart having long been beating at an undoubtedly concerning rate. He should say something. Or ought he? Rafal’s brain is short circuiting, stuck at a seemingly hopeless cross roads. If it were one of those delightful Muggle cartoons, sparks would be flying and he would be lying face-down on the ground in a purgatory state.

No. No. No, no, no. He cannot walk away, and not just out of necessity (his knees are quite literally jelly at this point). Rafal has not historically been a firm believer in forces of kismet, but surely there is a reason invisible forces have reunited him and this girl whom the Slytherin cannot seem to forget after one single night? Perhaps there is something bigger at play here, some larger story that is coming about? Rafal knows he needs to see it through.

Before he can lose this short burst of sudden adrenaline and run away screaming, Rafal wrenches his heel from stone and takes a step onward. His whole body wobbles for a short second and threatens to tip over, which really would have made for a most fiendish laugh from the fates overseeing this pitiable scene. Luckily, they must have decided that it would make for a greater source of entertainment to see this interaction through, and the hapless boy manages to right himself at the last moment.

Oh, dear. Rafal blinks in rapid subsequents, hand going up to rest over his poor heart, who is really having a most wretched day. His gaze drifts over to Stelle once more, and realises he really ought to get on with it - or he will most likely trip over his own feet or bump his head on the wall or something of the sort. The second year has never considered himself particularly uncoordinated, but evidently, this girl has some kind of unorthodox effect over his limbic system. That’s certainly reassuring.

It is by some miracle that Rafal Devereux makes the next few metres without incident, and he inwardly gives thanks to every deity who made this possible. Wise to stay on their good side, since he shall need all the help he can get for this next step.

The talking. How to do it, again? As he stares down at the head of blonde hair, still assumedly blissfully oblivious to his cloddish presence, Rafal discovers that there are truly some things you do not fully appreciate until it is gone. For one, the gift of speech. It is as if some strange and obscure enchantment has snatched all knowledge of any forms of verbal communication straight out of his head, leaving a fumbling empty space where the information used to be. Not a single word can be recollected, forget about actually forming them outwardly. He makes a mental note to never take this mighty wonderful power for granted ever again.

Just say it, Rafal. Something, anything! The little voice in Rafal’s mind is screaming at him. He is sure it means well, but he does feel that perhaps the fervour can be dialled down a tad bit. Enthusiasm is welcome, but the boy is getting an headache.

However, he must admit there is truth in the overall message, despite the contentious mode of delivery. Any second now, Stelle will look up and her first impression of him after months shall be of the Slytherin gawking at her like a lemon. Not exactly the impact he wants to make, though in this instant, Rafal thinks he would be glad just to be able to act like a sensible person and not at all barmy. Simply remembering how to say words would be a nice start.

"Hello," he blurts out. Then squeezes his eyes shut for a second, hating everything and everyone. Really? That’s what he chooses? How bloody eloquent. Opening his eyes quickly, Rafal tries to save the rapidly crumbling situation and plasters a smile onto his face, going for jovial but instead falling short to somewhere north of neurotic. Trying in vain to again find the reins in what is swiftly getting away from him, he opens his mouth again - against better judgement. "Rafal, remember? And you’re Stelle." Gosh, it would be so awkward if she doesn’t, indeed, remember! And a little sad, frankly. For him. With this in mind, the Slytherin hastily supplies, "From the Spring dance, we went together. And before that, I saved your sketch? From the.. wind. Which was very, very strong that day. If I… recall." Oh, this is fast getting out of hand. All brain cells have left the station. Choo choo. All aboard. "So, in a way," Rafal frowns, the words tumbling out of his mouth steadily becoming more and more alien. "I’m kind of a hero?"

Wait, what?

Interacting with @Stelle Mims

╭──────────────────────── ◜◌◝ ────────────────────────╮
╰───► ❛ Art Deco (Allure in Effect). ❜۵
₊⁺⋆ Date: November 4th, 2024| Number of words: 826| Dialogue: #aa5713 ⋆⁺
⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝⏝

Stelle remained motionless for a full heartbeat, as if the world had inhaled at the same time as she had.

She hadn't expected company. Much less this kind of company.

The trail of the lost frog, a thin line of specks on the floor, was still shimmering in the sunlight when she sensed, before she even saw it, that a presence had turned the corner. It was as if the light had changed texture and the air had caught its breath. Her back, still bent toward the floor, registered the change before her mind could process it. When she sat up, she found him there: stopped dead in his tracks, rigid as a statue, breathing too heavily for someone who hadn't run. There was something particularly vulnerable about the way his eyes seemed unsure where to rest, as if every inch of the corridor had suddenly become uncomfortable and dangerous.

Stelle blinked, surprised. Not by seeing him—the castle always had a way of bringing people together at absurdly opportune moments—but by the intensity with which he seemed to greet her. It was as if her mere existence had dismantled some internal structure within the boy. Part of her wanted to apologize for no reason, as if she had intruded on someone else's thoughts.

Another part… felt strangely dazed.
The sun fell on her shoulders like a warm cloak; behind her, the tinted glass turned the air to honey, and when he took a step and stumbled, just a little, enough to make Stelle's fingers tense with the urgency to catch him without actually moving, the light closed in on them both, as if to enclose the scene in an unfathomable bubble. She watched him closely. Not with judgment; she wasn't good at judging anyone. But with a peculiar mixture of surprise and tenderness; that tenderness that arose in her like a reflex, like a deeply Hufflepuff instinct.

When he uttered his “hello,” Stelle felt the sound shatter against something as fragile as her own silence. It wasn't a simple greeting. It was an involuntary, almost wrenched sound, a sound that cried out for help and at the same time feared it. She answered gently, like someone resting a feather on an unstable surface.

Then she let him speak. Or rather: she let him overflow.
Rafal's words seemed to spill out unbidden, tumbling over one another, tangling like loose threads on a loom. With each sentence, Stelle felt her own breath grow lighter, as if the hallway were transforming into a discreet stage where no one but the two of them existed. She didn't know if he was nervous, uncomfortable, confused, or cursed by some clumsy spell. But she did recognize the effort of someone trying to make sense of something outside their own head. And for her, that effort held a very particular kind of beauty.
He mentioned the dance.
The drawing.
The absurd wind.
The accidental heroism.
Stelle almost laughed. She didn't. She suppressed the impulse that she feared might sound cruel, though it wouldn't. Her smile barely rose, hidden behind a veil of gentle sanity. While he continued gesturing, or trying to, with charming clumsiness, she allowed herself to study him for a few more seconds: the tension in his shoulders, his hand still near his chest as if trying to calm him, the almost feverish gleam in his eyes. She remembered him differently: more composed, more self-possessed, more… restrained. But now he seemed to have been thrown into an emotional whirlwind without any warning.

And, for some reason, that made her feel a spark of warmth. As if the universe had allowed her to see a frightened creature pretending not to be. When he uttered his last sentence, that small verbal catastrophe and self-proclamation of accidental hero, Stelle tilted her head, letting a blond strand slip down her cheek.
Laughter threatened to escape again. This time it was harder to hold back, and her eyes softened.

—A kind of hero…?—. she repeated, in a whisper that wasn’t meant to ridicule him, but rather to cushion the fall of the comment.

The midday light streamed through the window at that precise moment, illuminating the outline of her face, as if the castle itself wanted to participate in the answer. She remained silent for another moment. A long moment. Then, with a slight smile, so slight it seemed meant for only one person, she added:

—I suppose so, do you want to confirm it?—. She wasn't mocking, she wasn't being sarcastic. In a way, she had been like those unsung heroes her father told her about every now and then, who helped in crucial moments; Muggles believed in them a great deal. Without much more, she decided to invite him to join her; she understood that her crusade might mean something, a small message from the castle indicating that she didn't have to continue alone.

—A student lost his frog toy, Bob, are you free?—.

ABILITIES: Part-Veela
INTERACTIONS:@ Rafal Devereux